


Aiden

by DarkInuFan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Lambert/bombs, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2020, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Papa Vesemir, Past Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Second Chances, Temporary Character Death, Winter At Kaer Morhen, Witcher!Jaskier, don't piss off mages, new identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 46,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkInuFan/pseuds/DarkInuFan
Summary: “Flattering as this all is,” Jaskier swore that he had never seen this witcher before in his life, but his heart swooped like it did reuniting with Geralt in the spring. “I do believe you have me mistaken for someone else. As much as I admire Witchers and their difficult profession, I am, in fact, a bard.”Taking a staggered step forward, Lambert raised a hand, just barely not touching the bard’s cheek and gave a watery smile. “Melitele, you even sound the same.”Jaskier's brows furrowed. “I-” Lambert pressed his bare hand to Jaskier’s cheek. Instinctively, he pressed back, his eyes fluttering. Then squeezing shut with a grunt, a shudder, then a full-body twitch before his body seized and fell to the dirt.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 217
Kudos: 385





	1. They told me you died

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try a new thing, and do smaller but (hopefully) more frequent chapters. Normally, I like my long chapters though...

Frost on the ground was usually the signal for them to part for the year, Geralt to the infamous Witcher’s keep of the north, and Jaskier to whichever bolt hole he managed to seduce his way into for the winter. This year, the frost had come early, but snow had yet to make an appearance, but it would be any day now. 

“Plans?” Geralt asked, looking over Jaskier’s shoulder to look at the crudely sketched out map in the back of the bard’s notebook. Little X’s were scattered around, as well as whole countries scribbled out in a bout of frustration. 

“Not so much, no.” Jaskier mused, eating an apple slice and pointing to random spots with the knife he had used to carve it. “I know you’re about to go to your ever-so-mysterious hold for the winter, so I won’t keep you from leaving. It looks like tavern-hopping for me though. Requests for my dulcet tones have been rather dry lately, but have no fear, I have no doubt that  _ someone  _ will hear of my plight eventually. Where should we meet up come spring? Posada, for old time’s sake?” He cast a wry grin over his shoulder. Even after so many years, they had yet to go back, so it had become somewhat of a joke between them.

“Or you could come with me?” A black gloved finger traced an invisible path between the ink triangles that indicated the blue mountains. “It’ll be cold, but the food and company are always good.”

“I’m sure it will be, with you there.” Jaskier purred, knowing that his flirting would get him nowhere with his oldest friend. “What happened to ‘Witchers only,’ if I may ask?”

Giving Jaskier a long look, Geralt eventually shrugged. “Vesemir won't complain if we bring company for the season, as long as they’re trustworthy. You’ve just had plans, before.” 

“O-oh, I see.” Jaskier was startled. Thinking about it, he always had made a Big Thing about having plans for the winter and leaving first, leaving Geralt to head north by himself each fall. It had been out of self-preservation more than anything else, in the past. If he left first, Geralt wouldn’t have to chase him away before heading home to his brothers and father for the winter. He didn’t talk about them much, but when he did, it was with an exasperated fondness of close family bonds. Geralt had few enough things that made him happy, he didn't want to get in the way of one of them. 

But on the other hand, he did want to see that happiness first-hand. “Yes, thank you. I think I’ll come with you.” Grunting in agreement, Geralt moved off to secure their bags for the day. 

The trek was hard, just as Geralt warned, especially with Roach hauling a small cart up the overgrown path, filled with supplies for the larder, but they eventually made it. The closer to the keep they got, he started pointing out various landmarks- such as two boulders they had to walk between that formed a trust leap on a training trail Geralt fondly referred to as ‘The Killer.’ “Lovely name, that.”

“But accurate.” Geralt mused, watching Jaskier’s face as they turned a blind corner in the path, knowing it held the first- and, in his opinion, best- view of the Keep. He knew the moment the bard had caught sight of the old castle with the way his eyes widened and his little murmured ‘oh’. “Welcome, to Kaer Morhen.” 

“It’s beautiful.” Snows had fallen the previous night, leaving everything with a pristine dusting of powder that would have melted if not for the slightly too cool weather. 

Geralt grunted in agreement, giving Roach’s reins a tug. “only a few more hours to go.”

“Oh, good! Any longer, and I dare say my bullocks would have retreated to  _ their _ little cave for the winter!” Humming in amusement, Geralt gave Jaskier a side-eye. He could have commented on the cloak the bard was wearing- more fashion than function, as per usual- but decided on the higher road.

“A tragedy, that. What would the women say, you, castrated by a bit of cold weather.”

“Exactly! I have been told by many a woman -and man- that my crown jewels are worth their weight in gold!”

“Cheap date then, bard?”

“Geralt!” Jaskier screeched, smacking the witcher’s arm to cover his laughter. “and that’s why I can’t take you anywhere! How rude!”

“My apologies, oh connoisseur of women and men of all ilks.” 

“There, that’s better.” Jaskier purred, ignoring Geralt’s blatant sarcasm. “You could apologise more often, it suits you.” 

Snorting, Geralt trudged on. They both knew that was a blatant lie. Finally reaching the main gate, Geralt directed them to a smaller one off to the side, barely wide enough for Roach and her cart to pass. Finding the gate shut, Geralt flicked his hand toward his ear in warning before letting out a long piercing whistle and waiting. 

And waiting.

Sighing, Geralt gave Jaskier warning again and whistled, this time with a bellow to quickly follow. “I know you’re there Lambert! I can smell your cat piss scent from here!”

“And with that, I’m not going to let you in! Asshole!”

“I have a human with me. What would Vesemir say if you let a human freeze to death at the gate?” Silence.

Geralt raised his hand to form Aard with a growl, but before he could follow through, the door made an unholy racket, between the thumps of locks being disengaged and the creak of heavy hinges in desperate need of oiling. “Ass. Hole.” The door cracked open just enough for a man with slicked back hair and a severe widow’s peak to pop his head out and glare at Geralt before his eyes slid to Jaskier and froze.

“...Aiden.”

“Who?” Jaskier blinked and tilted his head curiously before shaking out of a sudden brain-fog and giving a courtly bow. “I do believe you’re mistaken, dear witcher. Jaskier the bard at your service.” 

“It can’t be.” Lambert, normally the most tan out of the brothers, went as pale as Geralt. “They told me you  _ died. _ I saw the fire they burned your body in.  _ I have your medallion.” _

“Flattering as this all is,” Jaskier swore that he had never seen this witcher before in his life, but his heart swooped like it did reuniting with Geralt in the spring. “I do believe you have me mistaken for someone else. As much as I admire Witchers and their difficult profession, I am, in fact, a bard.”

Taking a staggered step forward, Lambert raised a hand, just barely not touching the bard’s cheek and gave a watery smile. “Melitele, you even sound the same.”

Jaskier’s brows furrowed. “I-” Lambert pressed his bare hand to Jaskier’s cheek. Instinctively, he pressed back, his eyes fluttering. Then squeezing shut with a grunt, a shudder, then a full-body twitch before his body seized and fell to the dirt.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted, crouching over the bard’s shaking body, not daring to touch while his body lost control. “What did you do?” he growled, baring his teeth at Lambert.

“I- didn’t do anything!” Lambert was frozen, eyes wide in horror and pale like he was toxic. “I… I- Vesemir!” he gasped like a dying prayer. Watching Jaskier continue to shake, Lambert turned and bolted back into the keep. “Vesemir!” the scream of a terrified teenager- not a full-grown adult witcher- bounced off the keep’s walls. 

“Just hold on Jask, Lambert’s gone to get help.” Geralt gently pet his hair, trying to keep Jaskier’s head steady and away from sharp stones on the path. “Can you breathe for me? Follow my breathing.” Geralt gently grasped one hand and pressed it to his heart. Jaskier’s eyes were open, but glazed.

“Ki-Kitten…?” Was the last thing he whispered before his eyes slid shut and his body went limp.


	2. Did you get the griffin who tossed me?

He woke up to hushed arguing.

“No,  _ you _ don’t get any say in this after what you did to him!” Geralt growled.

“What  _ I  _ did?” Lambert scoffed back. “ _ I  _ didn’t do anything to him. I’ve  _ never _ done anything to him! He’s-” 

He must have made some sort of noise, or his scent shifted, because suddenly there was silence and the scent potent anticipation in the air. “...Kitten?”

“H-hey Aiden.” He heard the thump of knees hitting bare stone as his hand was grasped.

“Did you get the griffin that tossed me?” He drawled sleepily, rolling his head and finally cracking open his eyes. His  _ slitted _ eyes.

“Heh, yeah.” Lambert’s laugh was watery. “His name was Geralt.”

“Hmm… Not Coën this time?” His eyes roamed the room before landing on Geralt, who was fidgeting next to the door, acting as if he was resisting the temptation to leave, and grinned. “Dear Wolf. Hello.” He held out his free hand in invitation.

“Hi.” he grunted back, reluctantly taking the invitation and kneeling next to Lambert.

“Now, can anyone tell me what happened?” 

“That’s what we’d like to know.” Geralt asked back, studying the face that he had known for decades… or, at least, thought he had known. At first glance, Jaskier’s eyes were now green, but they were the same blue as always, but now with a ring of gold around the pupils. His hair was the same sun-bleached russet as always, and his face remained largely unchanged. Talking, Geralt spotted the glint of small fangs that came with witcher mutations, and he could feel the prick of overgrown claw-nails on the back of his hand. “I thought your name was Jaskier.” 

“It is. At least, hmm.” his brows furrowed. “At least now it is. But I’m Aiden too, apparently.” He tugged at the hand attached to Lambert, pulling the younger wolf up onto the bed so that he could have a free hand to rub away the burgeoning headache. Lambert, taking the silent invitation, wrapped himself around his friend’s back like they had done a million times in the past. “I’ve got a headache.” 

Geralt frowned and looked around, spotting a cup and a pitcher of water. While he filled the cup, Lambert helped the human- former human- to sit up. “Here. Drink.” 

“Thank you.” His hands were unsteady, so Geralt helped hold the glass, getting a brush of fingers against his hand in thanks. When he finished, he leaned back into Lambert’s embrace, closing his eyes and taking in Lambert’s familiar scent, as well as Geralt’s near-familiar one.

“What’s the last thing you remember then, before… you know.” Lambert asked. “We were supposed to meet up in Novigrad. At the Passi-”

“The Passiflora, yeah.” He mused, a vague grin on his face. “I always wondered why the girls seemed to know me there. And here I thought it was my  _ bardic reputation  _ proceeding me that got me such good prices. Though I did play for them too, a few times.” 

Closing his eyes in a long blink, he stared across and through the bare stone wall and into the past. “You know the story, Kitten. Contract gone wrong, and then an asshole contractor that doesn’t want to give up the goods. Though, it turns out, this contractor had a grudge- and deep pockets. I don’t know what I did to piss the guy off, but he sent a mage and a bunch of, heh,  _ former friends _ for my head. Guess the mage got there first, seeing as to my distinct  _ lack _ of a few decades worth of memories until very recently.” 

Looking over at Geralt, he gave a wry grin. “My first memory as Jaskier, was waking up in a field of flowers, across the river from Oxenfurt. I stumbled across the bridge and started wandering around, trying to find something to spark a memory or two. Eventually, one of the teachers mistook my gloriously youthful face as a lost student playing truant and bullied me into the academy, and there I stayed for the next four years. Three of which, I went by Dandelion. Just how horrendous was that?” 

Lambert snorted. “Both of them are still weeds.”

He was already nodding by the time Lambert finished his statement. “True, but buttercups are a lot sturdier than dandelions. And poisonous.”

He leaned back and Lambert nuzzled the side of his head. Geralt’s scent turned complicated, to match his twisting face. “I’m going to go tell Vesemir that you’re awake.”

“Oh. Okay.” He felt disappointment in his gut, but gave Geralt’s hand a squeeze before letting the wolf flee, his tail between his legs. 

“Aiden?” Lambert, asked quietly.

“...Is that my name anymore?” He asked in the same tone. “I’ve been Jaskier for nearly thirty years. That’s a good chunk of time, even counting how long we can live.”

“Yeah, it is, if you want it to be. Or I can call you Jaskier. Melitele knows, I’ve heard enough about Jaskier-that-damn-bard from Geralt over the years.”

That drew a ghost of a smile “Let's say yes, then, and go from there.”

“Okay, Jaskier. I missed you.” Lambert gave the witcher-bard-witcher a hug and rested his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Eventually, a knock came to the door of the room, preceding a man that looked like an older Geralt with a mustache and a middle-age spread inviting himself in. “Yes, good, Papa Vesemir, thank you for waiting for an  _ invite _ old man.” Lambert grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Hush, pup.” The old man- Vesemir, apparently- gave a mild rebuke before turning to the original occupant of the bed. “Ah, good, you’re awake. Geralt told me you were.”

Fighting to not shrink under the older witcher’s assessing gaze, Jaskier nodded his head and held out his hand. “Yes, sir. It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Shooting his youngest an amused glance, he shook Jaskier’s hand. “I’m sure you have. Don’t trust near anything my pups have told you about me.”

Jaskier laughed through Lambert’s sputtering. “It’s not all as bad as you’d expect, Elder.” 

Vesemir barked a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m no elder, Kitten. Just call me Vesemir, everyone else does.”

“Oh. Jaskier, then. Or Aiden, I suppose.”

Vesemir hummed, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching out to cradle Jaskier’s chin, projecting his movements and giving the skittish Cat plenty of time to move. “Jaskier, then. My middle pup brought home a bard, after all, not my youngest finally dragging in his stray Cat.” Both younger witchers looked away at that. It was, in fact, part of the plans that they had been finalizing when Aiden had been attacked in Novigrad. “Now, how are you doing? Any lingering pains? That was quite the curse that you had on you- making you seem completely human.”

“Just the mother of all hangovers.” Jaskier decided to be honest with the infamous leader of the Wolf school. “And mostly human. I noticed I wasn’t aging about a decade ago, but didn’t say anything about it. Yen knew I was cursed, but didn’t know much beyond that- then again, she didn’t exactly try too hard to break it. We thought the curse  _ was _ the immortality.” Jaskier looked away and blushed. “I didn’t want to leave Geralt alone.” 

Vesemir grunted and gave an approving nod before standing up. “I’ll send up some tea with my idiot middle pup for your headache, along with some supper for the three of you. Afterwards, I would suggest sleeping the rest of it off and we’ll reevaluate tomorrow morning.

“Sleep sounds fantastic, thank you, El- Vesemir.” The old wolf grunted and turned to leave, but a nervous shift in the Cat’s scent stopped him. He didn’t turn, but waited with his head tilted in an invitation to speak. “I-If you wish, I can leave after I’m recovered, Master Vesemir. I know that Cats aren’t welcome after, well, the  _ incident _ , and, well, I’ve apparently deceived you-” 

“I’m going to stop you right there, Jaskier. You are here as my sons’ guest.” Vesemir turned, studying the young Cat’s face, as well as how his youngest was clinging to him like a particularly venomous limpet, a warning snarl on his face. “Besides, there are too few of us now to hold on to old grudges, especially when even fewer of us are alive to actually  _ remember  _ it.” He patted the child’s knee. “Besides, you’ve how long of slacking off your duties to recover from? No, you’ll leave the keep only when  _ I  _ deem so.”

Taking the orders as they were meant, Jaskier nodded with a small grin on his face. “Yes, I dare say it may take until spring to get me back to fighting form.”

“Possibly longer, but I’ve no doubt my pups will keep on with you beyond then.” Reaching the door, Vesemir gave the two a nod and a firm order, like they were still unruly children. “Eat. Then  _ sleep _ . We will talk in the morning.”

A short time later, Geralt came up with three large bowls of stew, a demijohn of Lambert’s ‘weakest’ ale and three sturdy mugs to split it between them dangling from a finger. The complicated scent still clung to him, even after giving the two on the bed their stew bowls and sitting on the desk chair across the room. 

“Geralt.” A grunt was his only response, focusing on his stew like it was a puzzle. It was only years of reading the older witcher that gave him an idea of what was going through his snowy head. “There’s room on the bed. You don’t have to sit all the way over there.” It looked like Geralt was going to ignore his invitation, so he turned on the charm. “ _ Please, Geralt?  _ I came here this winter  _ for you.  _ Lambert is just a… pleasant bonus.” He held out his free hand to beckon Geralt over. 

Lambert, in response, made a curious noise but didn’t let go with the arm still wrapped around Jaskier’s waist. Pushing his nose into Lambert’s jaw, his lips brushed stubble while he reminded the other that they had always been free to seek out others and it meant no less, which got a hum of agreement and another curious look from Geralt. “Shoulda banged the bard when you had the chance then, Wolf, if you haven’t already.” Lambert smirked in response, laying a loud and wet smack of a kiss on the Cat’s cheek. 

Reacting with an over exaggerated grimace, Jaskier didn’t bother to wipe off the wet mark, but kept his hand out in Geralt’s direction. “See, dear Wolf. It's nothing but Puppy kisses and fun between us. And what you and I have is just as real, no matter what you want from it. Just because I have my memories from before back, doesn’t mean that things have to change. Lambert may be my best friend, but you are my dearest, Geralt. You know how I am.”

“Do I?” Geralt sniped, “You’re a  _ Cat. _ Have been this whole time.”

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier’s outstretched hand curled before dropping to cup his bowl. “I would like to think so, Geralt.” Giving Lambert’s arm a squeeze and handing over his bowl for the puppy to hold, Jaskier carefully scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up, grunting at the tingling in his limbs. Ignoring the sensation of his feet waking back up, he made his way over to Geralt and knelt before the man. Carefully, oh so carefully, Jaskier rested his hands and then his cheek on Geralt’s knees, not able to look up and see the rejection in his eyes. “Have I acted any different tonight than I have in the time that we’ve known each other? Jaskier, with or without Aiden’s memories, is still the same person. I’m just… more now. You won’t have to see me grow old and die in twenty-thirty more years.”

He took a rattling breath and Jaskier knew he had hit at least a nail on the head, and rubbed Geralt’s knee with empathy. “No, you’re acting the same. That’s the problem.” 

“Hmm” Jaskier nodded, taking a page out of Geralt’s book while he thought of a response. “I think I’m still… processing all this, to be honest. I have all the memories, now, but they don’t feel like they’ve been locked up for thirty years. They feel like they’re the grey of half-forgotten memories and being around Lambert have just brought them back. I’m still me. Just… a Witcher version of me… That’s going to get all sorts of flack for all those songs about Witchers sounding like I’ve been tooting my own horn.”

_ That  _ got a small smirk out of Geralt, which Jaskier could read as a ‘serves you right’ even without looking. “Hn.”

“ _ Critic.”  _ Jaskier thumped Geralt’s knee- the good one, not the bad one, not after last time- with his fist, then used it to prop himself back up. Geralt automatically shot a hand out to lightly touch the small of his back, ready to steady him if needed. “Now, come to bed, darling. Have you  _ felt _ how soft the mattress is? I want to cuddle.” With a token grumbling protest, Geralt slid into the far side of the bed, pinning the Cat-cum-bard between himself and Lambert. 

Jaskier hummed in pleasure, turning just enough to throw his legs over Lambert’s and snuggle into Geralt’s chest enough that he was forced to either wrap his arm around the cat, or have it pinned to the headboard. “Thank you.” Geralt didn’t know if it was for him, or the bowl of stew that Lambert handed back over. Likely the stew. 

They finished their supper in relative silence before tucking in, the cat between them. Turning, Jaskier tucked himself back into Lambert’s front, while holding Geralt’s hands. “Thank you.” He repeated, giving the hands a little squeeze. “I know you’re not comfortable, and you don’t have to stay the whole night- Melitele knows you never do- but stay until I’m asleep?” 

“ _ Sleep,  _ Jaskier. _ ”  _ He wasn’t tired, but he could see the Cat’s eye’s unfocusing in exhaustion. Jaskier fought sleep as long as he could- afraid that he would forget it all again- until Geralt’s warm palm pressing over his eyes finally forced the issue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, the reaction from Y'all! I love every one of you who read and gave Kudos, and especially those that left me a comment too! 
> 
> I do have the next chapter or two already written, so those will be coming in the next few days. After that, I'll get things out as I write them, so it may take a bit between chapters.


	3. To drop a dancing star bomb

The next time his eyes opened, the grey of pre-dawn was starting to light the room, highlighting Geralt’s silver locks and sharp cheekbones. Listening to his bedmate’s heart rates, he realized he was the first up with a small smile. The feel of Lambert’s breathing and heartbeat in his back, the fact that Geralt hadn’t let go, even in his sleep, made his own heart flutter. 

Humming absently, he traced Geralt’s cheekbone with his thumb. The two wolves must have stayed up later to talk, or at the very least, Geralt had gotten up at some point during the night, because the dishes were missing from the desk and there were no foreign scents in the room as far as he could tell. Also, and here, Jaskier rubbed his leg against Geralt’s decidedly unclothed leg, Geralt had stripped to his smalls to sleep in. 

Eventually, Geralt’s heart sped up and he took a deeper waking breath. “Good morning, Dear Wolf.” Jaskier hummed, smiling as a sliver of gold stared at him blearily. The candles were lit, but the Witcher was currently out. He could see the slow realization from fond familiarity to a sliver of wariness as he remembered events of the previous day. “Will you give me a tour of your wonderful keep, or are you now planning to keep me locked in a tower like the princesses in the stories I so love to tell?”

Grunting, Geralt smashed his hand into Jaskier’s face in a clumsy attempt at sushing, before rolling onto his front and starting to peel himself off the mattress. “Only if you act like one.” He grunted into the pillow, earning a low laugh from Jaskier, who, in turn, woke Lambert enough to respond.

“Why the fuck are you awake?” Lambert grumbled, ending his statement by latching onto Jaskier’s ear by the teeth. 

“And here, I thought  _ I  _ was the lazy one.”

“It’s winter.” Geralt grunted.

“Time to sleep.” Lambert agreed, pulling Jaskier in closer.

Giggling, he gave Geralt a fond look while snuggling back into Lambert, just as much as the puppy was holding on to him. “I could have sworn I went to bed with a pair of wolves, not bears. Are you going to hibernate all winter?”

“That’d be nice.” There was an optimistic note in Lambert’s voice, but still, they made it down to breakfast. 

Eventually. 

Though it was more lunch by the time they stumbled into the great hall, there was still food being kept warm on the edge of the fire for them.

“And they emerge!” Twin grunts replied, escorting Jaskier to the worn table in their main hall, the three of them sitting across from a brick shithouse of a Witcher with a fascinating scar pattern on one side of his face. “I’m Eskel.” 

“Jaskier.” He shook the Witcher’s hand, “or Aiden. Haven’t quite figured that out yet. It’s wonderful to finally meet Geralt and Lambert’s surprisingly lovely brother.” In response, Eskel seemed to droop, turning his head down and away to shade his scars with his fringe. “Hey, none of that!” Not even bothering to go around, Jaskier crawled up and over the table, perching on the edge so that his face was inches away from Eskel’s and his legs framed his body. “Scars mean that you survived, and that is very,  _ very  _ sexy, in my opinion.” Looping his arms around Eskel’s neck, they were both startled when the larger Witcher suddenly stood up, dragging Jaskier with him unintentionally. “Mmm…” Jaskier let himself dangle, even though there wasn’t that much of a height difference, “And the rest of you isn’t bad to look at either.”

“I-ah… sword.” Eskel peeled the bard off, making sure he was steady on his feet. “I have to… swords. Armory.” 

Watching him beat a strategic retreat, Jaskier looked over his shoulder at the remaining two wolves. “Too much?” His response was a grimace from one and a reluctant nod from the other. 

“He’s… shy. Especially about his scars.” Lambert pushed Jaskier’s bowl across the table as he sat back down. Frowning, he agreed with a grunt and dug in. It would be something to work on, later. 

“A story there then, I assume.” He asked both remaining wolves, who nodded reluctantly. “And not a pleasant one, either.” That earned a bitter snort from Lambert and a constipated look from Geralt.

“Her name was Deidre. She was Eskel’s child surprise and went crazy.” Lambert was the one speaking, but it was Geralt that Jaskier was looking at. “He had to kill her.”

“Oh.” he fought the urge to apologise for bringing it up. “Geralt, are you ok?” Geralt turned away and grunted, playing with his breakfast. “That won’t happen to you.”

“No, it won’t. Because I’m leaving him with his parents. End of story.”

“You didn’t hear, then?” Jaskier deflated, wrapping both hands around his bowl. “They both died, Geralt, two years ago. There was a storm out at sea. The whole boat sunk, no survivors.”

“And the prince?”

“Princess.” Jaskier gave Geralt a wry smile. “Cirilla looks just like her mother. Calanthe’s a bit overprotective of her, but Eist has been teaching her how to be a proper little scoundrel. You’d like her.”

“And how do you know that?” 

Jaskier shrugged. “Unlike a certain Witcher, I’ve actually been  _ invited back _ to the palace. Several times, in fact, to play at the little princess’ naming day party. She seems quite taken with me when I’m there, I do say so myself.” Jaskier smirked to himself before focusing back on Geralt. “I knew one of us had to keep an eye on her, especially if it wasn’t going to be you. Destiny- no, I know you don’t like that word, Geralt. Don’t give me that look!- has a way to cross paths that are meant to cross, and I, for one, would like to  _ not _ be caught blindsided when the inevitable happens.” 

“And what ‘inevitable’ would that be, Cat.” Geralt bit out, ignoring the dimming of Jaskier’s eyes in reaction.

“I have sources as a bard, and I hear rumors. One of those rumors is that it wasn’t a storm that sunk Pavetta and Duny’s boat, but Nilfgaard.” 

“What would be the point of Nilfgaard attacking a ship like that. It and Cintra are nowhere near each other.” Lambert spoke up. “Besides, aren’t they always infighting?

“If rumor is to be believed, it's because Calanthe insulted one of their princes.” Jaskier answered with a shrug. “Makes no sense, I know, but Calanthe did rip that guy- and the entire country he was representing- a new one. Called them collectively nothing better than a latrine rag.”

“Ooh,  _ ouch. Have to remember that one _ .” Lambert smirked. 

“No, Kitten, no pissing off the nobles.”

“Just a little?” He pouted.

“No.” Jaskier sighed. “How you didn’t get killed while I wasn’t there to cover your unrepentant ass, I will never know.”

Lambert grinned. “Just lucky, I guess.” Standing up, he downed the last of his drink and took his dishes to the kitchen. “Geralt gets kitchen duty today! C’mon Jaskier, I wanna see you fall on your face!” 

Grimacing, Jaskier stood to follow. “Well, that won’t take much, I dare say.” as he passed Geralt, he squeezed the witcher’s shoulder, knowing that he had dropped a dancing star bomb’s worth of new knowledge on his head at once and needed time to digest it all. 


	4. Geralt! Come save me from this ruffian!

“Hey, I have your swords, if you want them back.” Lambert spoke in a low voice, “Actually I have most of your weapons, except-”

“Except for a dagger, yeah. They missed that one.” Jaskier jogged to catch up, grabbing Lambert’s hand and swinging it while they walked outside. “You kept them for this long, you can keep ahold of them for a bit longer for me, yeah? Right now I’m no Witcher, just a bard with unfortunately strong senses,” he said that as they walked outside and the wind blew down from the stables, making him wrinkle his nose. “and an incredible lucky streak. I don’t even think I can take Swallow right now without keeling over.”

“Hmm.” Vesemir grunted, drawing both boy’s attention. “We’ll work on getting your tolerance back up then too. Lambert, the wall. Jaskier, with me. Then you can spar with Eskel when you’re done with your laps.” 

“Yes, _Papa_ Vesemir.” Lambert grumbled, squeezing Jaskier’s hand once before taking off, giving the cat a reassuring grin. 

While Jaskier watched Lambert easily scale the wall to the obstacle course on top, completely ignoring the stairs, Vesemir studied the cat. “Attack me.”

“Excuse me, _what?_ ”

 _“Attack me._ ” Vesemir widened his stance and dropped his arms. “Show me what you can do.”

“Ok, um… now? But you don’t have a weapon. _I_ don’t have a weapon…”

Vesemir tilted his head with a dry look and hummed. He could see where Geralt got it from. “We both know that to be a lie, Cat.”

“Hmm? Oh! Ah, yes. My apologies, I forgot. It’s just such a habit that it completely slipped my mind, you see.”

“Boy! I’m not a city guard that you’re trying to wriggle by with that innocent act. Attack me!” Vesemir lunged forward, pulling a yelp from Jaskier as he spun away from Vesemir’s slow and projected attack. This repeated a handful of times before Vesemir changed tactics slightly with a growl and actually followed through with his tackle, pinning the bard to the hard-packed dirt.

“Oh! Ow! That hurt! Geralt! Come save me from this ruffian!” Geralt, who just happened to walk out the doors, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jaskier hadn’t even seen him yet. He alway _had_ had an uncanny ability to sense when Geralt was near. At least he was attempting to wiggle out of Vesemir’s arms while he pled for freedom. 

“Witchers who don’t at least attempt to win their spars, sleep in the barn with Vesemir’s asses. Without dinner.” Geralt said deadpan, pulling his steel sword and squaring up to spar with Eskel. “Just ask Lambert. He has his own stall.”

“Fuck you too, Geralt!” Lambert yelled, vaulting a rubble pile and kept up his jog around the training hall’s walls.

“He loves the taste of dry oats.” Eskel agreed, taking the initiative and lunging, only to parry Geralt’s quick blade with a twist.

“Bastards! Both of you!” Lambert was now crawling across this mass of netting that looked like it would dump him off the side of the wall at any moment.

Looking between the three younger wolves with the hope of catching them in a lie, Jaskier finally turned to Vesemir directly above him, who nodded solemnly. “I _was_ planning on venison stew tonight, but if you’d rather sleep in the stables and muck it out in the morning, be my guest.”

With a squawk, Jaskier renewed his wiggling, managing to grab his boot knife as he kicked out and managed to flip the older witcher (Vesemir let him, he was nearly completely positive). Using the momentum, Jaskier was able to roll into a defensive crouch, knife held in front of him and free hand splayed to- to do something. Whether it was a sign or to push his opponent away. His mind fogged briefly and Jaskier twitched his head, managing to bring his attention to the enemy and bared his fangs and hissed. 

“Oh, shit…” He heard vaguely, another person- another enemy? No, this one smelled familiar.- dropped down from the wall and walked closer slowly, his hands out wide in a peaceful gesture, so he ignored him.

“Good.” The old man, Ve-something, grinned, baring his own- much larger- fangs. “Now attack me!” 

With a snarl, Aiden did so, casting a disappointingly weak Aard, following with a slash of his knife that was easily redirected by the other. “There we go.” The man purred, projecting a grab that was easily avoided. In response, Aiden dropped, attempting a leg sweep that was just barely avoided. The other struck, testing his defenses and just pissing him off in general. 

Finally, Aiden just lunged, knife held tight, fangs and claws of his free hand bared with a snarl. Somehow, he managed to tackle the enemy and wrestle him to the ground, even though his wrists were both caught, he still had his teeth. The first two snaps missed, but the third caught the edge of the man’s jaw, drawing blood. “Good, that’s enough. _Enough_!” The enemy snarled the last word out and he was picked up, two strong arms pinning his upper arms to his torso and holding him just high enough that his toes barely brushed the ground, not enough to get him the leverage he needed to break free.

“You’re good Jask. You’re safe.” a familiar voice grumbled in his ear, matching the squeeze around his torso. “You need to calm down now.”

“Yeah. Hi there.” Lambert came around to stand in front of him and gave him their secret smile. “Aiden? Or Jaskier.” Seeing Lambert, Aiden’s soft growls slowly turned to purrs as his breathing steadied. When he reached out in peace instead of with his claws, he was released into Lambert’s arms. “Hey there, I missed you.” Though he was taller, Aiden stooped a bit to rub his cheek against Lamberts, reaching up to wrap his arms around his neck. “Can I take this? Thanks.” Carefully, Lambert extracted the knife from loose fingers and passed it off… somewhere.

“Missed you.” Aiden agreed, pressing their cheeks close enough together to nearly knock Lambert over. In fact, he wasn’t close enough. Hiking up one leg, and then the other.

Lambert quickly found his arms full of overly affectionate cat, legs wrapped around his hips. “Oof. Okay, then. There’s that.” Slowly, carefully, he sat down before Aiden accidentally knocked them both down. “This is a bad drop, isn’t it?” Lambert asked himself with a sigh. “I guess it’s been a while, so there’s that.” 

“Hmm. Interesting. Is this normal for him?” Vesemir asked Geralt, who shrugged.

“He swings a bit emotionally after a bar fight, but not usually this bad.” Geralt answered, crouching down and projecting his motions slowly and with intent, like he would to calm Roach, before petting Jaskier’s head.

In response, Jaskier turned his head with a curious chirp and grabbed Geralt’s elbow, preventing him from pulling back. “Wolf.” he pressed his head closer to ask for more pets.

“Jaskier.” Geralt used his nails and gave him a good head scratch, ratcheting up his purring in response. 

Lambert snorted. “Yeah, this is perfectly normal, thanks for asking me, old man. This just a bigger drop into his instincts than usual since they’ve been suppressed for so long. They’ll probably even out a bit as his memories start coming back more.”

“So this is the infamous Cat School Insanity, then?” Eskel asked, crouching down to watch his brothers and the cat interact, carefully out of the cat’s line of sight and reach.

Lambert bristled anyway. “Yeah, you can say that.”

“It manifests differently in each one. That’s why you can’t trust-” Vesemir looked down and saw the molten eyes of his youngest, clutching the cat for dear life, “- _most_ cat school witchers. The majority have the tendency to pick up sociopathic tendencies.”

Lambert bared his fangs, at Vesemir, at the world. “They kicked him out.”

“What?”

“They kicked him out of the caravan. For refusing to take human contracts. They even stripped him of his original medallion.” Vesemir didn’t gasp like the two older pups, but he did take a deep controlled breath before releasing it slowly. To be de-badged was a serious offense, reserved for those that repudiated the teachings of their school. At one time, it was the sign for a witcher to be killed on sight, but that was before the pogroms. Now, there were so few of them, that the offending witcher was mostly given the benefit of the doubt, even if someone managed to catch up with them. 

“But didn’t you say that you had his medallion and his weapons.” Eskel asked.

“I do.” Lambert nodded, running his hand down Jaskier’s spine, glad to not feel each knob like he usually did in the past. Witchers who couldn’t prove their school didn’t get coin, and with no coin, it was often up to their foraging (or thieving) skills to eat on a semi-regular basis. What the other wolves didn’t know, is that Lambert had stolen one of the blank initiate’s medallions from the forges and had formed it into a new cat medallion, different from the cat medallions that the Dyn Marv wore. Another Witcher would immediately be able to tell that it was a fake, but most non-Witchers wouldn’t, and that was what mattered. That, and the enchantments on the metal meant to warn a Witcher of chaos nearby. “I made him a new one. Problem with that?” 

“No, of course not, Little Wolf.” Eskel held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I was just a bit confused, since you just said that he was de-badged, that’s all.”

Lambert grunted in acknowledgement. “Good.” Turning back toward the bard in his arms, he stroked Jaskier’s hair and then squeezed the back of his neck to draw his attention back to the present. “Hey, Jaskier, do you wanna snuggle Geralt a bit, so I can finish my run?”

“Mmmnn… Ok.” he hummed before stretching out and twisting in a casual display of agility, half pulling Geralt closer and using the older wolf as a prop to haul himself upward. “Hello, dear Wolf.” With Geralt, he didn’t have to reach as far since they were nearly of a height before rubbing their cheeks together. “You’re always so _warm,_ it's not fair.” 

Huffing out a laugh, he easily took Jaskier’s weight. Now this was something he knew, this was all Jaskier in that sentence. “No, you just run cold.” In retaliation, Jaskier stuck out his tongue, then thought better of it and just outright licked Geralt’s stubbled cheek. 

“Eugh. You don’t know where that’s been.” Geralt stated baldly, to which the other two agreed.

“Tastes fine to me. He tastes like Geralt, not like blood and guts for once.”

“That’s… good.” Geralt and Eskel shared an amused look. “Have you licked Geralt before?” 

“Not on purpose.” Jaskier turned in Geralt’s arms and leaned against his broader chest, keeping hold of his arms when Geralt went to pull away. Turned toward him, Eskel could see that Jaskier was a little more present than he was a handful of minutes before. “Sometimes we share bedrolls, and it's hard to stay clean in the middle of a forest, you know?”

Eskel grunted in agreement. “That still doesn’t explain how you know what Geralt tastes like dirty.”

“He bites in his sleep.” Geralt answered instead, getting an agreeing nod from Lambert this time.

“Draws blood sometimes, too.” Lambert pulled aside the collar of his coat to reveal the side of his throat and the smattering of small circular scars there. 

Looking between the three of them, Eskel grimaced, but his curiosity won out. “So… who tastes better then?” 

Jaskier opened his mouth, ready to answer, as he looked between the two with a leer and waggling his brows. “Well…”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Vesemir interrupted the conversation that was quickly turning uncomfortable. “Lambert, walls. Wolf, Eskel, signs. Jaskier… you back with us, lad?” 

“I… think so? Did I go somewhere?” 

“You dropped. What was the last thing you remember?” Lambert asked.

Jaskier closed his eyes, looking through the grey fog for his more recent memories. He remembered waking up and spending the morning snuggled up between his two favorite wolves, then breakfast and… “Vesemir told me to attack him and I… did?”

“More or less.” Vesemir nodded. “You grabbed your knife after I tackled you and attempted an Aard.” Jaskier grimaced at that. Signs had never been his forte.

“Sorry…”

“You better be apologising for how weak that sign was, not for using all the tools at your disposal.” Vesemir shook his head. “And even then, apology not accepted. I knew that your skills have stagnated, expected it even. I would have been more surprised if you had managed to push me over.” 

“Still, I-”

“What are you three still standing here for, evacuating your noses? Get!” Vesemir barked, dismissing his boys with a warning Aard. Lambert and Eskel threw up Quen shields, while Geralt just grunted and bore the force of the blast. 

Turning back to Jaskier, the boy flinched a half-formed Quen sign as well, but didn’t follow through to actually casting it. Raising a brow, Vesemir gestured with his chin. “Well, you going to follow through with that or not?”

“Um…” Jaskier looked between Vesemir and his raised hand and back. The older man’s raised brow didn’t give any hints either. “Quen.” He finally threw up a half-hearted shield that dropped in mere seconds.

“Again.” Vesemir stated again, expecting to be obeyed. A second shield sprang to life, to be broken by Vesemir’s Aard. “Again!” 

Panting, Jaskier wavered a bit as he drew from reserves that had atrophied. “Quen!” This one was stronger, but only in comparison to his previous two. When he looked up at Vesemir after he broke the third shield, his eyes were slitted and he was panting, afraid to have to draw from reserves he just didn’t have any longer.

Instead, “Good.” Vesemir held out his hand and hauled Jaskier to his feet. “Now, come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so we have caught up! Just warning you now, I don't know when the next chapter will post. I'm working on this and about five other Witcher fics for NaNoWriMo 2020, so I'll circle back to this one as soon as my inspiration strikes. I'm hoping to get the next chapter up in about a week, but we shall see. I love hearing back from every one of Y'all in the meanwhile!


	5. Kaer Morhen's not-so-infamous Hot Springs

Wherever Jaskier was expecting Vesemir to take him, it wasn’t the forge and the attached armory. Not so soon after being revealed as a Cat school Witcher, anyway. Observing the bard, he eyed where the boot dagger’s hilt glinted by his knee. “I take it that you specialize in daggers, but that won’t cut it here. Most monsters won’t just let you get up close and personal while you stab them with something shorter than their claw, so you’re going to need something a bit longer, boy. Go ahead and look around, find something that feels comfortable for you.” 

Blinking, Jaskier couldn’t help but to gawk at the trust that Vesemir was giving him. “Are… you sure you want to do this? Trust me, I mean.”

Vesemir grunted. “I trust my boys, not you. I trust them to stop you if you ever step one toe out of line up here, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Jaskier was already looking around, picking up a longer knife and giving it a few experimental swings before putting it down and moving to a wall display of paired swords. 

These ones he spent a little more time with, moving to the center of the room and falling into half-remembered practice steps before he stopped and forced himself to put the two away. Vesemir took note of the pair to make sure they were properly sharpened later, along with possibly putting a new grip on the hilt. While he and his three pups leaned more towards longswords, it didn’t mean that he hadn’t trained students in the past to use shorter blades. It just wasn't a specialty at their school. 

In the meanwhile, Jaskier picked up one of the pups’ spare long swords and it only took half a swing for them both to acknowledge that that would be a match for emergencies only. Possibly for a time closer to spring, when the boy was more used to his body again. “Put that away, boy, before you hurt yourself.”

“Ah, yeah.” he agreed, hanging it back on the wall. It was a heavier blade than he preferred, but did remember playing around with Lambert’s and Geralt’s swords a time or two, the later having a coronary when he found out, banning him from even touching the sword unless it was an emergency or Geralt was there to supervise every movement he made.

“Here, try this one.” It was nearly as long as the Pups’ preferred sword, but narrower and lighter, but no less strong than the larger blades. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a good transitional weapon between the long sword and the boy’s favored short swords. Plus, it could easily pass as a noble’s weapon if he chose to maintain the cover of a bard come spring. With careful training with his eyes and awareness of his other non-human features, he could easily continue to pass as a bard like during the past twenty years. Green, while uncommon for Witchers, was common enough among the humans to not immediately be pegged as Odd or Other. 

Swinging the sword around, while he wasn’t completely happy with the weapon, it fit in his hand well enough, for now. Jaskier nodded, the sword settling in his hand in a casual-ready position. “This’ll do. Though, Lambert has my weapons up in his room. I can always just ask him to go get them.” 

Vesemir grunted. “Oh, _I wasn’t aware_.” He drawled, tapping the blade in Jaskier’s hand. “Humor me in the meanwhile.” While the blades in question lived in Lambert’s room (for there were a surprising number of them), at least once during the winter, the youngest wolf took them out and spread them across the library’s largest table in his own personal ritual. Every blade, from a small quill nib knife barely the length of his nail, to a pair of blades the length of very long daggers or short swords, was inspected carefully for dirt and damage, then sharpened and polished to an impractical shine. It had been the same ritual every winter since he had come back, broken and mourning, even more than he ever suffered after the pogrom and the deaths of every last one of his cohort. They all knew that he took at least a dozen of the blades with him on the Path, but the most sentimental ones were left behind. 

To be honest, at this point, he wasn’t quite sure that Lambert would relinquish the blades to their rightful owner, so it was best to find at least temporary replacements to train with. “Come along.” Leading the bard back out to the training salle, he looked around and studied his pups. Geralt and Eskel were rolling around on the ground, wrestling like a pair of unruly pups, while Lambert had perched himself on one of the balancing poles, watching the two with glee. He shouldn’t have expected any better. 

“Boys! Wall! If you can’t stand still for five minutes without me breathing down your necks to stay on task, you obviously have too much energy. Lambert, not you. Come here.” Vesemir growled out, snapping all three to attention. And  _ there  _ was the sign practice he had requested. He refused to let the sigh pass his lips, watching as Eskel wrench his hand out from under Geralt’s hold and use a one-handed Heliotrope to bounce Geralt away and into the forest of balancing poles that Lambert favored. Unorthodox and not how the sign was normally used, but effective. 

Jogging past, Eskel used a precise Aard to send Geralt back into the balancing poles, right after he had finally extricated himself . While, yes, that was the more conventional sign to use… This time, Vesemir did sigh, rubbing one temple in a vain attempt to rub away his burgeoning headache.  _ Why  _ did he miss his boys while they were out on the Path again? He had to remind himself that they would calm down sometime around midwinter, when the boredom and the ever-deepening snows started to weigh on them all. He just had to wait until then. 

Turning toward his youngest and Jaskier, he waved them both together. “You two, spar. Go on.” 

Both of them gave the trainer a gawping look, sputtering about not wanting to hurt the other (Lambert) and not wanting to get hurt (Jaskier, predictably). “ _ Now.” _

Turning toward each other, Jaskier gave Lambert an apprehensive look, which the other returned, before switching his grip to a one-handed one, his free hand gripping at nothing. Apparently the boy leaned a little too much on having two blades, to the point he felt off balance by only having one. He would have to work on the boy with that over the winter. Overall, though, his posture was about how he expected. The basics were there, but three decades of neglect, atrophied sword-specific muscle groups and a non-combative lifestyle had also done its damage. Taking out his own blade, he used the tip to nudge the boy’s back leg a bit further out and back, and tip the point of his borrowed blade a smidge higher before stepping back. “Begin.”

While he mostly watched Jaskier, he made sure to make a mental note to talk to Lambert about watching where his shoulders were while sparring fellow humans. His protective hunch was returning and would affect the range of his swing if he didn’t check his posture soon. The tips of their blades danced around each other, testing each other’s personal space before Jaskier was the one to lose his patience first and lunged with a small growl.

Lambert easily parried the blow, using the thrust to spin and hit Jaskier across the back with the flat of his blade with a painful sounding smack and pulled out a startled cry. It did no physical damage, so they continued, Lambert poking wide holes in Jaskier’s defense, to the point where Jaskier didn’t even bother attempting to go on the offense, always just barely managing to block and evade Lambert’s blows. 

With a grunt, Vesemir decided that he had seen enough. Calling for a halt, he sent them inside to wash up for lunch. It wasn’t nearly as intense as he usually liked to put his wolves through this time of year, but the cat was panting and looked a handful of sword-swings away from collapsing and taking a nap on the sun-warmed flagstones of the salle, despite the cooling temperatures outside. 

“Here, I’ll show you where to wash up.” Lambert offered easily, twining his fingers through Jaskier’s short-ish hair. “I’ll wash your hair.” 

Jaskier smiled at the action, purring as he pushed closer to Lambert’s hand while grinning up at him. “You sure know the quickest path to my heart, don’t you?” He let Lambert take the lead, easily following him down a few flights of stairs, through the kitchen, the larger larder, and behind a heavily bolted door. Opening the door, there was a blast of humid air and Jaskier grinned. “ _ Oh~  _ I’ve heard the rumors, of course, but I didn’t think that they were  _ true _ .” Jaskier purred, following Lambert down a steep staircase and into the mountain itself. 

The walls were wet with moisture while the top of the tunnel above their heads held a few centuries worth of stalactites, hung like tiny icicles of stone. The air took on a humid, mineral scent, while the temperature rose steadily. At the bottom of the staircase was an anteroom filled with polished sturdy wooden benches and rows of cubby holes carved in the stone walls. In one corner was a small pool, too shallow and narrow to get in, but big enough to wet rags and fill the buckets that were lined up along the edge of the pool. 

“...Oh.” Jaskier fought not to be disappointed. Indeed, Kaer Morhen had a hot spring, but he had expected something, he didn’t know,  _ bigger? More impressive?  _ Than this tiny little pool.

“Here, I’ll scrub your back. We need to rinse off before we use the springs.”

Jaskier eyed the pool apprehensively. “Ok, I’ll get your back too.”

“Thanks.” Lambert nodded, bustling around the room and filling up two buckets and pulling them over to where Jaskier was slowly stripping out of his clothes, folding them carefully and tucking them in the empty cubby next to where Lambert had balled his up and shoved them in until they were wedged quite well onto the shelf. “You still like Lavender?” He asked, either oblivious or ignoring the disappointed scent Jaskier knew he was exuding.

“Hmm…? Oh, yeah. Lavender and chamomile.” Lambert looked over with a quirked brow, but decided not to comment. It actually explained the excess of chamomile that had popped up in the soap supplies when it was Geralt’s turn to resupply the soaps. 

Grabbing a liquid soap meant for hair and a bar of harder and slightly harsher soap, he walked over to Jaskier and held them out for inspection. “It’s bear tallow. I think Papa Vesemir took the pelt for his own bed, though. It was an impressive one, nearly put Eskel to shame for bulk.” Taking the soaps, Jaskier inspected them, admiring the creamy texture with little purple and yellow dots from the dried flowers. Nodding in approval, he went to hand them back, but Lambert stopped him. “Lean back so I can wet your hair.”

“What, here?” Jaskier turned, giving Lambert a startled expression.

“Well, yeah. Where else would we wash?” 

“Oh. Um... “ When he couldn’t come up with an alternative that didn’t involve hauling a tub up five flights of stairs (along with the water for said tub), Jaskier decided to acquiesce. “Right. I’ll follow your lead, then.”

“Damn right.” Lambert smirked, not bothering to wait for Jaskier to obey his request and just dumped the first bucket over Jaskier’s head, drawing a surprised gasp from the bard. It wasn’t cold, which he didn’t know was more surprising, between that or suddenly being wet. Lambert gave him a slight warning before pouring the second bucket at a slower pace, making sure to thoroughly wet Jaskier’s hair before exchanging the bucket for a glob of the liquid soap in the pot Jaskier was still holding. 

With care that his brothers would never believe he had, Lambert gently scrubbed Jaskier’s hair, careful to keep the soap off his face as he worked out the general grime of rolling around in the dirt and detangling the knots that the cat’s hair seemed to always acquire when it started growing out of Jaskier’s normal summer haircut. Digging his thumbs into the base of Jaskier’s skull, Lambert drew a sinful groan out of the bard as he worked out the knots he found there. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered in ecstasy as he leaned back, putting his full weight and faith in his partner’s hands. 

“Mother Melitele, I missed this.” Jaskier groaned, enjoying the feel of Lambert’s hands tangled in his hair. “Geralt never bothers to reciprocate.”

That pulled a snort out of Lambert. “Of course not, why would he? It probably hasn’t ever crossed his thick skull to do so.”

Jaskier replied with something halfway between a grunt and a groan and full Geralt-ism in agreement, drawing a laugh from Lambert, then a contented hum as he managed to both hold Jaskier’s head relatively steady and crawl up onto the bench and sit comfortably behind the bard. Snuggled up close against his back, Lambert took hold of the bar of soap and wet it in the water in the half-full second bucket, along with a rag, and lathered it up well. 

Leaning back, it was a simple thing to turn his head and tuck his nose just under Lambert’s ear, easily able to smell the Witcher’s natural scent. “Mmm… Kitten…?” He hummed, putty as Lambert took one hand and started to wash each finger at a time, taking his time to rememorize his body.

“Yes, Ai?” Lambert whispered back, soft like he only was when it was the two of them.

“Missed you.” 

The soap rag trailed up his arm, carefully massaging his well-developed forearms. “Missed you too, Kitten.” 

“I’m sorry for leaving you.” Lambert froze, before sighing and melting into Jaskier’s back in a kind of hug. The rag dragged across Jaskier’s hirsute chest, bubbles easily tangled into the darkened curls. 

“I know.” They fell into a comfortable silence, Lambert spending the time washing Jaskier’s body to relearn the bard’s personal map of scars. While not as prevalent as some, he did have his own record of his life on the Path. One, a relatively short one from an obvious knife wound, Lambert traced“This one’s new.” He spoke quietly, not wanting to break the peace that had enveloped them like the steam in the room. 

“Bandit that got a lucky shot in.” Jaskier explained freely, not shy about the scars on his body. “Geralt relieved the poor sod of his head directly after, so it turned out fine.” 

Lambert hummed, drawing his hand diagonally across his back, touching unscarred skin where he knew that a leshen’s claw had nearly torn him asunder.

Humming, Jaskier decided the best way to address his scars, or, more precisely, the distinct lack of scarring that Lambert had known intimately, either through worshipping Aiden’s body, or helping patch him up after any particularly nasty battles. “They took away my scars when they suppressed my mutations.”

“Ah.” Lambert hummed. That just meant that he had to learn Ai-Jaskier’s body all over again. “And your…” 

“Ah, no. Unfortunately.” Jaskier raised his free hand to trace the outline of his right eye. The scars were no longer there, like they had never been. “They took away my mutations, they didn’t heal me.” As Jaskier, he had always thought that it was a childhood injury, or that he had been born that way. “Why, does it bother you?”

“No, never.” Lambert leaned forward, pulling Jaskier close to his chest. “You’re still you, half blind or not.” Humming, he took the chance and wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held on. “Does Geralt know?”

Tilting his head, Jaskier shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s never mentioned anything about it, but that boy can also be about as observant as a bag of bricks at times. It took him a month once to notice that I had dyed my hair.”

“So? You dye your hair all the time. I don’t think I knew your natural hair color for at least a decade after we met.”

Jaskier sat up and turned fully around, staring at Lambert with his good eye. “I was  _ blond _ . Piss blond from a shitty dye potion and it took him a  _ month _ to notice, and only because I finally got my hands on another hair dye potion to change it back. And he had the  _ audacity _ to say I looked better that way.” 

Through valiant effort, Lambert didn’t immediately crack, holding onto his laughter for nearly half a minute as the bard glared at him through green-blue eyes. “Well… You always did look good in yellow.” With a snarl, Jaskier tackled the wolf.


	6. Kaer Morhen’s Infamous Hot Springs

Eskel and Geralt came down to wash up, joking and pushing each other around, already half-undressed as they entered the washroom, only to stop and stare. Lambert was lying down on the wide wooden bench, a towel underneath him to protect from stray splinters. While not unusual, what caught their eye was that Jaskier was straddling the younger wolf’s thighs as he was giving him a  _ thorough  _ massage. “...And so he says- oh. Hello? Done training for the morning?”

“Hn?” Lambert turned his head and cracked an eye open. “Why’d you stop?”

“Don’t let us stop you. Just let us, hmm… Pool.  _ Geralt! Move!” _ Eskel hissed the last part, shoving the White Wolf out of the way so that he could stow his clothes and then opened a door on the opposite side of the room that Jaskier had assumed to be a storage closet, except for the billow of steam that rolled out when he did. 

It took a moment, Geralt looking between Jaskier, Lambert and back before grunting and following Eskel into the next room. 

“Heathens!” Lambert squawked, sitting up and dislodging Jaskier from his perch, “At least rinse off first, you beasts!” He got up and stomped into the next room as well. “You’ll dirty the springs!” Jaskier heard bellowed through the door as he picked himself up off the stone floor. 

What? But he thought?  _ No…  _ Jaskier scrambled up and followed the wolves, only to stop in shock in the doorway. There, in all their majesty, were Kaer Morhen’s infamous hot springs, known in Witcher and Sorcerer circles across the continent. There must have been at least some magic involved in the process of creating them, because there were few places where Jaskier had ever seen tiles shimmering in such a way outside of palaces, reflecting the cool-toned lights and making the handful of glowing crystals able to illuminate the whole cavern, if only barely bright enough to see well. Tiny tiles formed murals on the walls and floor, while the pools were left mostly in their natural state, along with the ceiling above them. The room wasn’t a sweeping dome of a cavern like he had always imagined, but that led to a sense of intimacy even with the pools themselves being wide and long enough to swim in. 

“It’s fine, Lambert. The pools clean themselves.” Eskel was relaxed on the far side of the pool, away from where a gloriously naked Lambert stood to berate them.

“That’s not the point! They take days to cycle through and in the meanwhile I don’t want to be soaking in your rank soup!”

Jaskier bit off a snort of laughter, attempting to stay mad that he had lied about the pools themselves, even if by omission. Lambert was, surprisingly for a Witcher, quite fastidious when it came to his cleanliness. Looking back at it, it explained why, after the initial grumbling, Geralt easily capitulated to Jaskier’s administrations. Where he would coax and wheedle Geralt into taking care of himself on the Path, Lambert was practically chucking the pot of liquid soap at his head. Not to say that Geralt didn’t like being clean (on the contrary, he had caught him using Igni to reheat the bath on more than one occasion so that he could sit and soak longer), but it was a bit of a battle to get him into the water in the first place.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Jaskier figured he was clean enough, thanks to Lambert’s close attention to detail, and took one, two steps back, rocking on his heels before launching himself forward with enough momentum to land himself in the middle of the pool, splashing all the wolves equally, much to their protests. Popping up, Jaskier brushed his hair out of his face and hummed in pleasure, glad that the middle of the pool was indeed deep enough to free float in, especially since he had, literally, jumped in feet-first. “Oh… this is nice…” He hummed, deciding to just let the water take his weight and float there for a little bit. 

That is, until he accidentally floated too close to the edge of the pool and one of the wolves grabbed his ankle and  _ pulled _ . 

His yelp was cut off by his head going under. Sputtering as he came back up, it was instinct that had him honing in on Geralt, growling the wolf’s name as he caught that playful grin before getting splashed by an aard-powered wave. “Oh, now you’re getting it!” Jaskier attempted to tackle the Witcher, but lost because of the wall at Geralt’s back. The slightly taller man used the wall and the underwater bench carved in it to aid getting the momentum to toss Jaskier back into the center of the pool again. They wrestled for a few minutes, accidentally pulling Eskel and Lambert into the chaos of aard-powered splashes as well.

But eventually they all calmed down as they all chose benches to sit at and just bask in a hot spring that just edged toward too hot for even Witchers to endure comfortably. Turning around to rest his arms on the edge of the pool with his chin on top, Jaskier groaned and just let himself be. Between the steam opening up his pores and sinuses and the hot water melting his muscles, he was prepared to spend the entire winter underground turning into cat meat stew. But alas, all good things must come to an end eventually.

“Come on, Jask.” Geralt nudged the cat with his toes. “Time to get out. Vesemir probably has lunch ready by now. And after, we can give you a proper tour of the keep.”

“Mmm… five more minutes, dear Wolf.” Jaskier murmured, turning his head just enough to be able to peer up at Geralt’s looming form through his dripping fringe.

Geralt grunted, already turning to pull out a bath sheet to dry himself with. “Five minutes, or I’m dragging you out myself and you’ll have to get lunch wet and naked.

“Just how I like it.” Jaskier grinned tiredly, getting a laugh from Lambert and a shaking head from Eskel… and was that a blush? He really was a cute thing, Eskel. So shy.

“‘Shirts and breeches at the table, at all times’” Quoted Geralt, getting reluctant nods from the other two. “Vesemir’ll tan your hide otherwise.”

“Nah, he  _ likes  _ me.” Jaskier waved off with a grin, though he did finally haul himself out of the pool and into the bath sheet Geralt held out for him. “I’m innocent.”  _ That _ got a snort from all three of them, two of which knew rightly just how ‘innocent’ the cat-cum-bard  _ really _ was. 

Back in what Jaskier now knew was more of an anteroom and not the springs themselves, the wolves moved over to a different set of cubbies that held neatly folded soft linen and wool chemise and breeches in a variety of colors and simple cuts, all with drawstrings to adjust to different waist and necklines. They were obviously casual clothes meant for the keep in general, to be used between the baths and when the Witchers in question eventually made it back to their own rooms and the clothes within. That, or to lounge in when they were not expected to train or do anything more strenuous than flipping the page of a book or whittling. 

“Here.” Geralt handed over a sky-blue chemise and a pair of brown breeches. Not the most decorated or brightest clothes he had ever worn, but definitely warm. Holding the shirt up, he was pleased to see that it did have a small bit of decorative stitching along the neckline and cuffs and made an appreciative noise because of it.

“That’s Eskel’s handiwork.” Lambert explained, pointing out the geometric pattern decorating his own cuffs. “Not only does he have magic hands when it comes to signs, but with a needle as well. Makes all of us at least one new shirt each winter to wear for the upcoming year.” Jaskier hummed, tracing the diamonds lying over Lambert’s sternum absently. He did remember, as both Aiden and Jaskier, seeing his wolves returning to the path each spring with decorated chemise. Lambert wore his as long as he could before a monster inevitably destroyed the shirt, while Geralt only wore his on special occasions. It had taken him a while to notice the embroidery on Geralt’s shirts though, since they were all black-on-black, though occasionally he spotted a navy blue or a splash of blood-red colored thread.

“He does lovely work.” he agreed with Lambert, watching Eskel and making sure the biggest witcher knew that the compliment was actually directed to him. “I always wondered where they came from. I always thought you had a standing order with the seamstress in Ard Carraigh.

“I mean…” Lambert shrugged. “To a point, we do. We buy a few bolts of fabric off her every few years so that we can make new clothes over the winter. We each have our specialties though. Papa Vesemir’s great at coming up with the wildest dyes you can think of. Geralt’s great at drafting clothes and making sure it all fits, while Eskel decorates them and adds a lot of the finicky things like buttons.”

“And what do you do?” Jaskier asked, following the others up to the main hall, where, indeed, Vesemir was setting out a simple selection of breads, cheeses and preserved meats, along with a bowl of whole fruits for the boys to choose from. 

“He finishes the hems and seams, so nothing unravels.” Eskel replied when Lambert refused to answer for himself and Geralt was dishing out various tidbits that he knew Jaskier would like. 

After a moment of thinking about it, Jaskier nodded with a smile. “Yes, that makes sense, I suppose.” He hummed, rolling what he now realized was quite a unique hem through his fingers. It wasn’t folded like most clothes were finished, but had this sort of braid wrapped around the raw edges, as well as the raw edges of the seams of his shirt tucked under and sewn down to both keep them from unraveling and to reinforce the seams. “This is all lovely work, all three of you.” 

“Four. Vesemir carves all the buttons as well as dying the fabric.” 

“What are we talking about?” Vesemir asked as he came in carrying mugs for all of them, as if he didn’t already know what they were saying. 

“Jaskier was just admiring the clothes we have here at the keep.”

“Ah, yes.” Vesemir nodded, mostly to himself, as he passed around the mugs. “Remind me later to take you into the fabric storage room. You only have silks with you, do you not?” 

“Ah, yes, sir.” For the first time in a long time, Jaskier was embarrassed to say that he only had expensive fabrics that he wore out on the path, despite their impracticality. Despite Geralt (and to a lesser degree, Lambert) attempting for years to get him into something a bit more practical to get blood out of, or at least harder-wearing fabrics for the road. 

“Good. Now eat and you can tell me what kinds of colors you prefer to wear later this winter so we can get you properly kitted out come spring.”

Jaskier choked on a piece of cheese, having to take a swig of (beautifully delicious) ale to wash it down. “What? I mean, why? I’m barely even a witcher anymore, let alone a good one in the first place? Why would you bother with someone like me? I would be better saving for another set of performance clothes.”

Vesemir hummed, his lips turning white in the attempt to remain neutral. “Humor an old man then,  _ bard,  _ and let me do this for you. I have a keep’s worth of supplies that have been just sitting here for the best part of fifty years, rotting. It's of no consequence if you were to take some off my hands. And besides, it’ll give me a bit of a challenge. These three,” And here, he pointed at his pups with a thumb, “have been wearing virtually the same thing since they started out on their paths. I know what they want for their kits in my sleep.”

“At the very least, travel clothes, so that you can stop complaining about getting mud on your silks and giving the poor washer girls a break trying to clean it out.”

Pursing his lips together, Jaskier finally nodded. That was something, at least.  “As long as I’m not putting anyone out.


	7. Maturity, after all, isn't a number, but a state of mind.

Touring the keep devolved into a game of hide-n-seek between the three, with, ironically, Jaskier being the one to go off and ‘hide’ every few minutes as he got distracted by one thing or another. Geralt, who always had prided himself for being able to track Jaskier at his most promiscuous, found himself just as lost as Lambert, when he turned around to explain the room they were crossing to notice that their third had vanished into thin air.

“Where…?” Geralt turned to his brother, who had his arms crossed as he took up the rear. Rolling his eyes, he pointed his thumb back over to a door that wasn’t cracked open last Geralt had seen it. “Jaskier!” he hissed in frustration. Stomping over, he flung open the door, to reveal… an empty room. “Jaskier!” 

“You bellowed, dear Wolf?” Jaskier’s voice came from behind them, making the duo whip around to see Jaskier coming out of the room that Geralt had about to lead them into. “I found the most glorious library. I dare say, it might even beat Oxenfurt for bestiaries. No comparison, unfortunately, to Kaer Seren’s though.”

“Where did you- Since when have you been to the Griffin Keep?” Lambert cut himself off, still boggled that Jaskier had managed to give both of them the slip, seemingly without meaning to.

“It’s amazing the places you can get into with a few sweet words, dear Kitten.” Jaskier clasped his hands below his chin and fluttered his eyelashes. “I thought I taught you that already.”

“Yeah, but… Kaer Seren.”

Jaskier shrugged, a little smile dancing on his lips. “It’s all in who you know, really. Did I never introduce you to Coën, little one? He’s about your age, actually.” 

“Yeah, but just the once, old man, and only in passing.”

Jaskier hummed, mentally planning to drag the Griffin along the next time he saw the other. Looking over, he nearly choked at Geralt’s expression, like something had just exploded and he didn’t know how it happened. “...Yes, Geralt?” 

“Hmm…” walking close and taking Jaskier’s chin, he examined Jaskier’s face. “I thought Lambert was older.”

Pulling back with a grin, Jaskier purred as he leaned into Geralt’s space. “Why, thank you, Geralt. You flatter me, but no, I had just celebrated my first century when… well, when I met you.”

“I thought you were nineteen.” 

“Well, to be fair, I thought I was nineteen or so too. Turns out I age beautifully well, even for a Witcher’s lifespan. Don’t you think so, Kitten?”

“You have crow’s feet, Aiden. And you’ve been dying the grey out of your hair ever since I met you.” Lambert stated unrepentantly, with his patented smirk.

In response, Jaskier gasped and grabbed his chest like he had been stabbed, stumbling back a few steps until his back hit the wall. “Wh-you-I… Lies! Lies and Slander! You take that back Right Now Lambert!” Crossing his arms, he pouted hard in the youngest Witcher’s direction. “At least I don’t have a receding hairline!”

“That’s too far!” Lambert bellowed, taking a leaping tackle and pulling Jaskier to the floor with him. 

Geralt, on the other hand, was suddenly over Jaskier apparently being the eldest Witcher at the keep, excluding Vesemir. Maturity, after all, wasn’t a number, but a state of mind. And Jaskier, even after twenty years of knowing each other, was still the same randy teenager he had met all that time ago. Rolling his eyes, he thought it was best (for his sanity) to just walk away now. Lambert could give Jaskier the rest of the tour once they stopped flirting with each other. 

Realizing that his elder brother had left off to do his own thing, leaving them behind, Lambert pulled Jaskier into a side hallway, boxing him in against the wall. "Are you fucking Geralt?"

Jaskier tilted his head and gave a wry smile. "At one time, I wish we were, but no. We're just friends."

"Why not? He's a good lay. _Eskel's_ never complained." Lambert's hand scrabbled at the ties of Jaskier's chemise, where his cat pendant had lain a lifetime ago.

He growled in frustration as his fingers tangled in delicate ribbon instead of sturdy silver chain, descending into a whimper when he couldn't get a good hold. In response, Jaskier instead grabbed Lambert's chain, pulling hard enough for them both to feel the resistance. "I wouldn't complain."

"I'm sure you wouldn't." Jaskier replied with a chaste kiss. "That's not how we were."

"That's not how we are." Careful not to tear the ribbons, he pulled Jaskier in for a rougher kiss, biting the cat's lip hard enough to draw blood.

"No, we're not." Jaskier agreed, sucking the blood off his lip and grinning. "You missed me though, didn't you, my cute little Kitten." 

Lambert scoffed, grinding their hips together. "You were a good fuck.”

In a move that caught Lambert off guard every time and made tavern girls swoon, Jaskier spun them both and slammed Lambert face first into the rough stone wall, pressing close enough to feel Jaskier's erection rutting in the cleft of his ass. "And you would know, wouldn't you?"

"I know what I remember, but would it live up to the memory, old man?"

"I'll show you old, Kitten!" Jaskier thrust his hips with a snarl, biting down on Lambert's shoulder through his winter chemise. "It's called experience."

"No, it's called being a slut."

"And a world-class one, too, so don't you forget it!" Jaskier thrust a few more times before stilling. Snaking his hand between Lambert and the wall, he gave Lambert's cock a firm squeeze. "Tonight." He breathed a promise into the wolf's ear before stepping back and adjusting himself so that the bulge was slightly less obvious. Not like it would help, with the whole keep able to smell lust on the two witchers. “So… where were we? The library, right?”

“Ah… yes!” Lambert was a bit slower on the recovery, drawing his brain back out of the gutter was like trying to fish a gnome out of a rabbit hole: it took a few tricks and focus, and an inordinate amount of concentration. “The Library. Full of books. Bestiaries from all corners of the continent, but mostly written by the many, many, uptight, emotionally-repressed bastards of the past. Also, where Vesemir stashes his porn that he likes to think we don’t know about, and Eskel’s many, many, _many_ books of poetry he’s tried to woo Geralt with over the years.”

Snorting at Lambert’s rolled eyes, Jaskier mentally added finding Eskel’s poetry collection (and, let’s be fair, Vesemir’s porn stash) for future perusal. He knew though, not for lack of effort, that the written word was not Lambert’s preferred form of entertainment. It wouldn’t stop him, though, from doing his own recitation of his own personal collection of his favorite, erm, ‘poems.’ Including great classics such as ‘The Shepherdess' Bleating Goat’ and ‘The Two-backed Tiger.’ 

“And how about you?”

“‘How about me’ what?” Lambert led Jaskier on as they meandered down drafty hallways, stopping to occasionally admire a tapestry or two that Vesemir and Eskel had managed to restore from the sacking.

“What do you do, all holed up here all winter? Geralt has his books, leatherworking, _Eskel…”_

“Well... “ Lambert grinned, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s waist and gave him a squeeze. “Aside from _you_ … hmm… follow me.” They went down a set of corridors that seemed a bit darker, more dilapidated and in ill-repair than the rest of the keep. “The others don’t like coming down here too much. This is where the Mages… y’know.” Lambert scowled at a door that looked like it had been the victim of multiple Igni and was hanging on by a bare thread and kicked it before walking past.

“Yeah.” Jaskier stared at the door as they passed, memories flashing past of Stygga castle and the Mages’ tower rooms. The screams come each spring as the Trials were performed. How most adult Wchers tried to be out on the path by that time so that they wouldn’t have to hear and become submerged in their own memories. It was only the old, infirm, teachers and students by that time of year, and it was still too much. At least, when the old castle was destroyed, the boys- and some girls- at least saw the green of nature instead of the isolated desolation of a mage’s workshop before they succumbed… or not. 

“Hey!” Lambert grabbed his arm and swung him away from the door, dodging a swipe of the cat’s claws. “Are you ok?” 

“Hmm… yeah. Let’s go.” At least Lambert, poor, lucky Lambert, didn’t have the memories of hearing the screams of his underclassmen dying with enhanced senses. He didn’t have more than just his cohort’s deaths to haunt his memories, of which most of them hadn’t even fallen victim of potions, but human cruelty instead. 

Lambert had told him once, and that was enough, that he was unconscious when the invasion happened. That he was lucky and that the room that he was recovering in- deep in the bowels of the keep where the light wouldn’t damage newly sensitive eyes had gone undiscovered. What he had woken to, wasn’t the screams of his cohort going through their trials, but their deaths as they were slaughtered like newborn kittens at the hands of humans with farm tools. The door to his room was buried in the explosion that rocked the keep and collapsed the western towers. It had taken the survivors a week to unbury his door, and by that time, he had passed out once again from dehydration. They wouldn't have even bothered to unbury him to check if he was alive, if it wasn't for Vesemir's insistence. 

Overall, their keep was lucky-for the first few years, at least. Most of their witchers, as was traditional at the time, were already on the path and weren’t caught up in the slaughter. On one hand, more of the children may have survived, but on the other, the world still needed Witchers. While some fully fledged adults fell victim to the progroms, most of them fell to the inevitability of a witcher’s lifestyle and died from becoming too slow to defeat the monster they were hired to slaughter. It’s what happened. The Dyn Marv caravan, last he knew, only had a handful Witchers left, but there were rumors that they were still able to give younglings the trials, either through experimentation or retaining one of the mages that knew the formulae instead of killing the betrayers like the other schools had done. 

At one time, according to Lambert, there had been fifty wolves left. Now, there were four. An elder that refused to return to the Path, two from the same class- one whom should have been a mage at Ban Ard and the other given the most powerful mutagens on record- and Lambert, the youngest and last witcher to ever come out of the wolf school. 

Leading him deep, to where he could almost feel the heat from the springs radiating through the stone and past a few storage rooms, Lambert finally opened a well-maintained door and waved Jaskier inside with a grin. “Welcome, to my lab.”

Looking around, Jaskier couldn’t help but to grin. “You mad alchemist.” He shook his head, not knowing what to expect, but not surprised in the least. He had taken over one of the mage’s labs and thoroughly scrubbed it of its original purposes. In one corner was a still and stacks of empty barrels, ready to be filled, along with different paraphernalia used in brewing. On the opposite wall were bins of grains and various dried bundles of herbs Jaskier could easily identify as various flavoring agents. 

“I haven’t snagged any fruit from the kitchens yet, but this is where I make my brews, as well as the white gull we all use for potions.” 

“They trust you to do this?” Jaskier teased, spotting a battered notebook and flipped through it, noticing that they were the records of various brews and what Lambert had done differently for each batch. What each wolf liked in their beer, and what they all agreed was better to never touch again. 

Lambert shrugged, snagging the notebook and putting it back on the table. “It’s not like they have a choice. If it was up to someone like Geralt, they’d use the first pull from the still and blind themselves using Cat instead of increasing their night vision. It’s hard enough of a job to do without shit potion ingredients on top of everything else.” He said it so nonchalantly, it brought a grin to Jaskier’s face. 

“You _care_ about them.” Jaskier teased, ignoring Lambert’s sputter as he continued to inspect the room. The well-oiled hand pump in the back corner explained exactly why it was _this_ room out of all the empty ones in the keep. “This connects straight to the springs, doesn’t it?” 

Lambert nodded, looking proud of his discovery. “By the time it gets up here, it’s cooled down to the perfect temperature to brew with. I don’t have to wait for it to cool or heat it up like from the well the kitchen uses.” 

“It doesn’t hurt that it keeps the room warm either, does it.” Jaskier hummed knowingly. If there was anyone who hated the cold worse then he did, it was Lambert. The cold _and_ the dark. 

Lambert hummed in agreement, turning to pull down ingredients and line them up on the prep bench, his notebook opened to a free page. “You have anything you want to try?” Jaskier remembered that look and walked up behind the smaller, running his hand down Lambert’s arm and over his hand, gently forcing him to put down the quill. “I remember that you’re fond of that one sweet wine in Toussant…” Turning, Jaskier caught him up in a gentile kiss, pulling him away from the bench and toward the door. 

“Whatever you want to make, I’ll try.” Jaskier winked, managing to pull Lambert away from his still room. “You know that. You’ve never disappointed in whatever you’ve given me in the past.”

Lambert chuckled dryly, reluctantly letting himself be pulled along. “That’s because you haven’t been the victim of all my bad brews like the others have.” 

“You? Bad brews? Never!” Jaskier rolled his eyes, getting a raspberry in response from Lambert. “Now, I didn’t see any black powder barrels down there, so that can’t be your only little hidey-hole up here.”

“Yeah, no.” Lambert stuck his tongue out. “Potassium nitrate does _not_ taste good in brews.” Lambert turned and led the way back upstairs. “That, and Papa Vesemir keeps getting after me not to explode the keep anymore than it already is.” 

Jaskier blinked, caught between confusion and humor. “Oh? Have you had that problem before?”

Lambert turned around and walked down the hallway, pinching his fingers together and squinting one eye closed. “I may or may not have set off an explosion or two. Tiny little ones. Papa Vesemir’s mostly just paranoid.”

“Uh-huh. And if I were to ask Vesemir?” 

Lambert opened his mouth, sighed, slumped, and winced. “Yeah… so nobody was using that wing anymore, alright? It was too unstable in the first place for any of us to even begin to attempt to patch it up. I did them all a favor.”

“How come I have the feeling that they didn’t see it the same way?” 

“Look, I’ve gotten _much better_ making bombs since then. I haven’t blown anything up on accident for the past five winters!” 

“And on purpose?” Jaskier raised his eyebrow, laughing a bit as Lambert hit the bottom step of the staircase and went sprawling up them.

“You know how I like to fish. I don’t have time for that whole string-on-a-stick shit that everyone else does. Anyone who does is crazy.” 

“I would think the rest of the would would disagree with you, there.” Jaskier laughed, holding out his hand and hauling Lambert back to his feet before they both ascended up into the entrance hall and outside into a comfortably-insulated but freestanding hut close to the forge. 

“The part that sucks about bomb making?” Lambert swung open the double doors and showed off his bomb production table. “I can’t have any fire in here or the whole hut gets blasted to smithereens. Again.”

“...Again.” There was a reason why Aiden never used bombs. Why _Geralt_ rarely used bombs, though there were a handful carefully wrapped in the bottom of his saddle bags for when the occasion called for it. He had a feeling that those bombs had been made by Lambert’s own hands, along with some of his more intricate potions, decoctions and oils that could stand being stored for months at a time. 

“Again.” Lambert nodded wryly, as sheepish as he let himself be under Jaskier’s knowing look. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, the inevitable has happened: I'm gonna write some porn... but not for a few chapters yet (pray for me to finally get up my courage to do so)! (This has only been something I've been delaying attempting to do for... nearly... 20... years. Ok, yeah, I'm a coward. I know, theoretically, what to do. Its just... brain to keyboard is the issue here)


	8. Just how many times has Lambert tried to kill himself via his own bombs?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, folks!

“Okay, you’ll have to tell me straight here,” Jaskier spoke up from his stew, gesturing at Lambert with his spoon over the dinner table but looking at the other three wolves. “Just  _ how many  _ _times_ has Lambert tried to kill himself via _his own bombs_?” 

The room let out a deep sigh, all the air pushed out of the dining hall at once. “Enough times.” Vesemir at last said, wearily, “That one of us has to supervise him in that shed at. All. Times. You’re in on the rotation now too.”

“I’ll work on my Quen first thing, then.” Jaskier nodded, not expecting any different. “Now then. I feel like some music.” He finished his stew and pushed back from the table. “Dear Wolf, do you happen to know where my precious lute wandered off to in this grand fortress of yours?”

Geralt opened his mouth to answer, stopped, furrowed his brows and turned to Eskel. “Did you take all the bags up to my room, or are they still out in the barn?” Since he had been busy worrying about Jaskier, and at home where he had his winter supplies, his baggage had quickly become low on his priority list, though Jaskier would have asked after his lute sooner than later. 

“I…” He had to think back. After Lambert had gone to answer the gate and then screamed for Vesemir, they had both come running from different corners of the fortress. 

* * *

“Eskel, take care of Roach.” The larger Witcher took hold of the normally steadfast mare’s reins as he watched his mentor crouch down to the stranger’s side. “Lambert, with him.”

“But-!” 

“ _ Now,  _ Lambert.” Vesemir stared his youngest down until he backed off. “What happened here.”  _ And who is he? _ Vesemir asked, his hands hovering over the young man on the ground, his head carefully pillowed on Geralt’s lap.

“Jaskier just collapsed. He was fine one minute, then Lambert touched him and he collapsed, shaking. He just stopped right before you got here.” 

Vesemir grunted and nodded, first thing was to check that the boy was still breathing and that he didn’t have a concussion. After checking his breathing and his pulse, he pulled open his eyelids to check for a concussion, absently noting a witcher’s slitted pupils and blue-gold eyes instead of human-round ones. Not finding a witcher’s medallion, he moved on and did a sniff test to check for potions or magic. “Has he taken any potions lately? A possible crash or allergic reaction? What school is he from?” Certain schools had changed their mutation formulae to the point where they were unable to consume potions made by other schools. Geralt’s in particular were made stronger than the average Witcher could handle without precautions being taken first.

“Potions? School?” Geralt shook himself, “Jaskier’s a  _ bard _ , not a Witcher. I’ve known him for two decades. He hasn’t taken any potions. He knows not to touch mine.” 

“That’s Aiden. A  _ Cat School _ Witcher. He- I thought he  _ died _ , thirty years ago.” Vesemir looked between his pups and the unknown Witcher on Geralt’s lap, his lips pursed.

“Lambert. Once again. Help Eskel. I won’t tell you again. Cat or bard, there’s too few of us to turn him away now. We’ll get some answers if  _ -when-  _ he wakes up again. Geralt, he seems stable, bring him inside.”

“Yes, Vesemir.” While restrained, they could all hear the relief in Geralt’s voice, like he was afraid that Vesemir would turn them away at the gate.

“Lambert.” Eskel gestured with his head toward the barn, already leading Roach to the kitchen doorway so they could unhitch the wagon from her saddle. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go check on him.” For all their sakes, he really did hope that the stranger was Aiden, or Lambert would be unbearable for the rest of the winter, just like that cold one thirty years ago where their youngest wandered around the keep like a nightwraith, equally liable to attack on sight or start sobbing. 

Bags of grain and cones of sugar, dried exotic fruits and other such provisions that they couldn’t gather for themselves from around the mountain easily came off the cart, with Geralt’s saddle bags and swords tucked up near the front, as well as a satchel and a well-loved hard-sided travel case for a lute. At least the bard story checked out after a peek inside to confirm that it indeed was a lute inside. He didn’t know much, if anything, about instruments, but the wood was well-polished, so it looked well taken care of. Carefully, he set it aside to be taken up alongside Geralt’s bags. He could decide what to do with everything later.

* * *

“They’re up in your room.” Eskel finally answered after a moment of thinking about it. “I took them up after taking care of Roach. I left the satchel and lute in a corner, but I put away your saddlebags where they usually go since you were busy.”

Geralt nodded his thanks, both for taking care of his bags and his horse while he was distracted. “You know where my room is?” He asked Jaskier, who shook his head, amused.

“Unfortunately, no. My tour of the keep somehow didn’t include the location of anyone’s rooms beyond mine and Lambert’s. Though, if  _ you  _ want to show me where yours is…?” Jaskier leaned forward, chin on hand, elbow on the table.

Snorting, Geralt shoved Jaskier’s elbow off the table and gave him a wry look. “You’d find it sooner or later anyway, Bard, may as well get it over with now.”

Hooding his eyes, Jaskier gave Geralt an air kiss. “I knew you loved me, Dear Wolf.” 

“About as much as a fungus, Bard.” Geralt stood up, offering his hand to help Jaskier up out of habit. “Come on.”

“Yes, well, some fungi  _ can _ be quite tasty, you know.” Jaskier stood and followed Geralt out of the hall, ignoring the wolf’s snort of amusement. Alas,  _ one day _ , he may just take Jaskier’s offer seriously. 


	9. Why wasn’t it enough?

Upstairs, Jaskier found that the pups all slept relatively close together. If not sharing a hallway, at least within the same wing of the keep, as they passed Lambert’s room and another that smelled like it should belong to Eskel. At the end of the hallway and the base of the tower, was his own room for the winter, while Geralt climbed up, and up, to the top before opening a steel-reinforced door and escorting Jaskier inside. 

“You know, I never would have pegged you as the ‘maiden in the tower’ type.” Jaskier mused as he looked around. The room was surprisingly large and well-decorated with various furs and tapestries that looked like they were pulled from other places in the keep. The main feature though, was definitely the bed. Piled high with the softest furs and hung with very thick curtains tied back to the posts, it looked like it belonged in a royal hunting lodge.

“It’s quiet up here.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, my friend.” Even with his classically trained and mutated ears, he barely heard the rest of the keep over the wind, and the wind itself was even muffled behind thick stone walls and tapestries covering the arrow slits. There wasn’t much in the way of actual windows, this being a defensive keep and training school first, and a home second, but there was a door that Jaskier could believe led outside to a widow’s walk under the eaves of the steepled roof. 

Finding his belongings right where Eskel said they were, Jaskier took out his lute and sat in one of Geralt’s wingback chairs in front of his banked fire and slowly checked that the weather and altitude hadn’t ruined the tension on the strings  _ too _ badly. It was for this reason why he was always leery to travel to the cold climes with an instrument in tow. “Speak, my friend. I can see that you want to say something.” The fact that they hadn’t been alone since his collapse and consequently regaining his memories, wore on the ease of their friendship.

“Aiden.” Geralt stated simply, sitting in the other chair. It wasn’t so much a call of his name, but a question. Or a dozen -hundred- questions.

“Where do you wish me to start?” Jaskier carefully focused on his lute, taking his time with the tuning pegs. “From the beginning, yes, but which beginning? My life, whatever I can remember of it, or where I met your youngest brother and fell in love with him? Or where I lost my memory and broke his heart and fell in love with you instead? Or as well, if you are amicable.” It was no secret, Jaskier’s love for his Witcher, just as it was nearly impossible for Geralt to accept said love as a romantic one. 

“From wherever you’re comfortable, my Friend.” Jaskier gave Geralt a genuine, crooked smile at that. It was something between the two of them, this easy camaraderie borne of nearly twenty years of (mis)adventures together. 

Leaning back, Jaskier absently plucked at his lute’s strings as he stared through the ceiling and into the past. “You’ll have to forgive me, then, for my memory is still quite a bit foggy, though I am working to clear it- for better or worse. Well, though it is of no consequence, I think I will start at my beginning. Once upon a time, just about over a century ago, I do believe I actually  _ was  _ born to some minor nobility. I don’t recall if I had any siblings, or even what my parent’s faces looked like, but what I do remember, is that I was claimed as payment and thusly taken to Stygga Castle to train and become a Witcher. 

“Now, that was all fine and good and normal. I would go out, slay the beasts and come home for the winter. Occasionally, they would ask me to mentor a kitten or two, escorting them on the path for their first year or two to get some real-world experience before sending them off on their own. We found that most younglings survived their first decade at a better rate that way, but apparently you wolves do it differently.” There was no accusation in his tone, but Geralt pursed his lips in defense either way.

“It doesn’t matter now anyway, does it?” Jaskier waved off, continuing his story after pulling himself out the memories of his old mentees and noticing Geralt’s near-snarl. “It all changed with the progrom though, didn’t it? Lambert told me what happened to his class, how he was the only one that survived.” Geralt nodded reluctantly.

“Young wolves are sent out in a pack to fend for themselves. From two to five pups in a group, most of the time with a mentor, if one is available and willing to follow along. Lambert was… nobody expected Lambert to survive, let alone thrive, his first few years on the path. We had given up his entire class for dead, between more than average dying from the trials, and the attack on the keep. Most of the instructors called him weak.” 

Jaskier hummed in thought before looking at Geralt. “What about you? Did you give up on him too?”

Geralt looked away, staring into a dark corner with shame. “I was on the path already, and when I came back, I was told that the whole class had died by the survivors. I had no choice but to believe them, since nobody saw Lambert for the next five years.”

“Ah, hn.” It was Jaskier’s turn to look away in embarrassment. “That would be my fault, I assume. Baby Witcher, out on his own, without anyone else to lean on? I took him home with me that winter. Especially because he had told me that he wasn’t allowed back home for the next few years until he had proven himself.”

“That used to be true. It's about the only part of our traditions that were passed on to him, apparently. But it wasn’t meant to leave him out in the world alone, just to teach him how to survive on the Path.”

That got a bitter laugh from Jaskier. “He was nearly dead by the time I found him. He wasn’t even surviving at that point, just finding a place to die where his body wouldn’t be spat on by passing humans. He was half-frozen, the wounds on his face infected and I could count every bone in his body, of course I took him home, damn Wolf or not. The others weren’t happy with me, but then again, they never were. What’s the chance of two free spirits spitting on tradition finding each other? So, yes, I took him home that winter, fed him up and stuck him in with the other kittens for training. He  _ thrived,  _ Geralt, for getting any sort of positive attention he could get from the trainers. Made me want to run my knives through every one of you bastard wolves if it would make the kid smile.”

Jaskier gave a feral grin before shrugging and letting the expression drop, relaxing back into his chair. “Makes me glad, now, that I didn’t meet you as Aiden the Cat. As Jaskier the Bard, I get to see these things from an outside perspective. I can understand now, what kind of changes the progrom wrought, for better or worse. What, if things would have been different, would have made it so that we would be sitting across from each other, having a relatively peaceful conversation?

“But somehow…” Jaskier contemplated his fingers, shifting from chord to chord absently, some minor and others major in their progression. “Somehow he had convinced me to give the other wolves a chance. We were all recovering, at that point, and the caravan was still getting their feet back under them after the castle was attacked and I wanted a bit of a break.” Jaskier stopped, hummed, then shook his head. “No, that’s not exactly right. It’s more like they wanted a break from me. The survivors of the castle and I… didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye. Heh.” 

Reaching up, he rubbed his blinded eye, remembering the horrible pain of the dagger that took his sight. Not seeing eye-to-eye was right. The survivors were a ruthless lot, who all agreed that it was time to put aside their morals when it came to the humans and take revenge for their slaughtered brethren. Jaskier, Aiden at the time, believed more in surviving being the best form of revenge that they could have against the mages that slaughtered them. Survive and thrive, holding on to the morals that the mages had cast aside in their grab for power that cost hundreds of his fellow cats (and possibly thousands of overall Witchers) their lives. 

And as Jaskier, he was pleased to note, he still had many of the same morals. To not attack those that are innocent, but only those that had proven to have no value for sentient life. And if humans were among those with no respect for their life, so what, they were just another beast to be slain. What he didn’t agree on, still didn’t agree on, was taking out mercenary contracts. Those tended to be messy, because the one that was on the hit list was rarely one deserving death, but who had pissed off the wrong type of person- a person with money. Murderers, Rapists, those that stole for the sake of stealing, those were the people who deserved to die, yet were rarely the ones that contracts were ever taken out on. It was more likely to find a contract out on the local hedge witch for selling snake oil.

Tapping the place where his medallion should have been sitting all this time, Jaskier sighed. “We were supposed to meet at the Passiflora, like you heard earlier. I got there early so I decided to scan the message boards just in case there was a small contract or two I could do to kill some time. Fuck, it was supposed to be just a couple of nekkers. Instead, it was a setup. I didn’t think they would go out of their way to try to hunt me down. They’d already de-medallioned me and I was staying out of their way, but it wasn’t enough.” Jaskier leaned over his lute, cuddling it close. “Why wasn’t it enough?”

“Hn.” Geralt closed his eyes. He could imagine what happened there, how they would have played around with him until he would have been begging for mercy before going in for the kill. As much as he would like to believe differently, that was how he knew how the Cat School Witchers operated. He saw it in how Lambert sometimes hunted. Now that he knew what to look for, he also saw it in the way that Jaskier would sometimes profile a room while performing, spying on the patrons and picking who he would sleep with that night. How it would nearly always be a woman in an unhappy marriage, wishing her to have at least one sexual encounter to look back fondly on, even if it wasn’t with her husband. 

Geralt chewed his words, silently going through several beginnings before settling for one. “It... would never have been enough.” Not consoling, but understanding nonetheless. “People like that,” people like you, “are impossible to appease, once they get their heart set on a certain path.” He debated on the next question, hoping, praying, that the answer was yes. “Do they think you’re dead?”

“Merciful Melitele, I hope so.” Jaskier breathed, looking away. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his long days hiding from his past. Especially now that he had his memories back. But… would it have been worse to be killed as Jaskier the Bard, unknowing of what ‘wrongs’ he had committed in a past life? 


	10. Does he ever breathe?

“Now, I know that I promised some music, and some proper tunes will be had indeed, but first, I, as the humble White Wolf’s bard, feel as if obligated to sing my most infamous piece to start out this wondrous night!” Jaskier, foot propped up on one of Vesemir’s wingback chairs in front of the fire (ignoring said wolf’s growl to get his filthy feet off the upholstery), struck his most dramatic pose, dressed in his full silk finery, as if he were performing for a court and not four fellow Witchers. 

“Does he ever _breathe?”_ Eskel murmured, eying Jaskier as if he was a new breed of nekker.

“No.” Was the immediate response from either side of him. Geralt and Lambert shooting each other commiserating glances, one sighing and the other giving a rueful chuckle. 

Striking the first chord, Jaskier watched Geralt immediately groan, his head meeting the table with a thud. This amused Jaskier greatly, making him play louder to cover the moans.

“ _When_ a humble bard/ Graced to ride along/ with Geralt of Rivia/ along came this song…!”

“Oh, fuck me.” Lambert rolled his eyes with his whole body.

“Plan on it!” Jaskier chirped, smoothly transitioning into the next lines of the song. “From when the White Wolf fought/ a half-starved devil/ and his army of elves/ their feet did he tremble!”

“Jaskier!” Geralt barked, getting a wry grin in response as Jaskier pranced oh-so-casually to the opposite end of the trestle table. “Don’t think you’re safe there, Bard!”

“They came after me/ in horrible retreat/ broke down my lute and kicked in my teeth” That, at least, was true… as embarrassing as it was. “While the devil’s horns/ minced our tender meat/ and so cried the Witcher/ ‘He can’t be bleat!’” Jaskier drew out the note like he did when he sang to younger audiences, making an impressive impression of a goat in the process. If nothing else, it usually got a giggle or two.

He belted out the chorus, full of repressed annoyance and renewed insistence since the recovery of his memories, “Toss a coin to your Witcher/ O village alderman/ o village cheapskate/ Oh, just pay to your Witcher/ you can afford it!”

That got grunts of agreement all around, even from Geralt, who had heard many incarnations with differing levels of wrath over the years. This one was definitely the most on the nose of the lot. With the next verse, instead of a triumphant tone, he struck more minor chords to imply regret. “At the edge of the world/ fights an elven army/ that’s bashed and broken/ and brought down to mourn. They thrust every elf/ far back on the shelf/ high up on the mountains/ ‘from whence they came’. Hired to kill your pest/ Got kicked in his chest/ he’s a friend of humanity/ so pay him the rest.”

Reflecting on the story like he never let himself on the road, he gave the others a brittle smile. “So that’s my epic tale: our champions prevail/ defeated the villain/ so give him a meal. Toss a coin to your Witcher/ O village alderman/ O village cheapskate/ oh, just pay your Witcher/ He’s done what you asked.

‘Toss a coin to your Witcher/ O village alderman/ o village cheapskate/ oh, just pay your Witcher/ He’s done what you asked.

‘Toss a coin to your Witcher/ O village alderman/ o village cheapskate/ oh, just pay your Witcher/ He’s done what you asked.

‘Toss a coin to your Witcher/ O village alderman/ o village cheapskate/ oh, just pay your damn Witcher/ He’s done what you asked!”

Lambert and Eskel chuckled at the change in lyrics, obviously having heard the song a time or two in the past twenty years. “I don’t think that’s how that song goes.” Eskel said, giving Jaskier his opinion without shying away for the first time since they were introduced. 

“Oh? And how would you know?” Jaskier’s tone wasn’t patronizing, but inviting a conversation instead while he absently plucked chords, deciding what to play next.

Eskel shrugged, losing courage and looking away as he spoke. “I think the lyrics are supposed to say that Geralt won, not that…” Eskel thought back through the lyrics. “It sounds like the elves were the ones being attacked.”

Jaskier nodded, sitting on the bench. “They were, by the humans. And then they hired Geralt to kill a sylvan that was helping the refugees by stealing gleanings from the fields at night.”

“Then why…?” 

Pursing his lips, Jaskier rubbed his thumb across the neck of his lute absently. “Because history is always written by the ones that can afford to make their voice heard. The elves were- still are- hunted down and exterminated for being inhuman, just how Witchers are. It's easier to hide and regroup if nobody’s looking for you. Making humans believe that the elves are defeated, and that witchers are firmly on the side of humanity protects both group’s interests. Witchers can move relatively freely and mostly unmolested, thanks to the song.” Closing his eyes, Jaskier looked back on his own memories, and those of Aiden’s. “Have you not noticed that Witcher tolerance has gone up since the song became more popular?”

“I know one thing, I don’t miss the taste of piss in my ale.” Lambert grunted. “Phlegm’s more tolerable, at least.” 

“Now, you see, _that_ is up to you.” Jaskier pointed at Lambert, poking him in the chest. “There’s that little thing called ‘being less of an asshole to the barkeep.’”

“But-!”

“ _Especially_ when they’re already being a bastard.” Geralt snorted, sighing in exasperation when Jaskier stole Geralt’s ale, despite his own being _right there,_ out of habit. 

Geralt simply reached over and plucked up Jaskier’s as his own. “Speaking of being a bastard.”

“Have you ever noticed, dear Wolf, that the chance of our ale being molested becomes lower when the barkeep doesn’t know which was whose to spit in?”

Geralt grunted. “Thought you just liked the taste. Who was I to stop you? Surprised that you never got poisoned though.”

Jaskier laughed his annoyingly fake laugh, “Oh-ho-ho-oh, they have. I just have an unusually high tolerance of the usual kitchen poisons, apparently. That, and _those_ mugs often found their way poured on top of some poor sap’s head.” Jaskier hummed and Geralt grunted. Memories of various bar fights _started_ by the bard flashed through his mind like war flashbacks. “Oh, shush you!” 

“And the time you dumped it on _my_ head?”

“That wasn’t ale, that was outright _vinegar_ , you heathen. And I saw you order it that way too.” It was true, Geralt had once ordered a mug of vinegar, with the hopes that it would stop the bard from swiping his drink. It didn’t.

“I had a sore throat.”

“You had a- you filthy _liar! ‘I had a sore throat’_ bullshit. Witchers don’t get sore throats, and you know it! And don’t tell me it's from yelling. Monks with a vow of silence use their voice more than you do!” 

“I had a sore throat, watching you strain trying to talk that barmaid into a romp in the barn. I was embarrassed for your sake.” Geralt drawled. “If a Witcher could manage to get a disease from another’s dirty loins, I’m sure you would find a way to do it.”

“Least I don’t fuck mages.” Jaskier spoke sweetly before diving into his next song and dancing out of immediate swiping range. “Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger/ Come quell your daughter's hunger!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up, next chapter will be diving head-first into NSFW territory, so gird those loins for some (pretty bad) smut!


	11. A serpent to send many a’blushing maiden swooning!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just in case you didn't get the memo, this chapter is 90% NSFW smut. Reader beware... I haven't done full-out before, so... please be nice? (This took me three days to write... because I had to sit down and _force_ myself to write it like the adult I physically am.)

“Tongue of silver and wits of steel/ this Witcher’s wits will prevail/ to slay the beast without fail/ O monster in human skin!” Jaskier tripped after Lambert, giggling as he held onto the bedroom door for dear life.

“I’ll show you a beast to slay!” Lambert giggled back, flush-faced but ever-so-slightly more sober. Maybe he should have stuck to the ales and wines, but at some point during the night, the White Gull had been pulled out of one of Lambert’s wine cellars and shots poured all around. Not the best idea, since Jaskier now felt like an initiate on a high from his first potion, invincibility included. Whatever tolerance he had acquired to the mildly hallucinogenic but highly alcoholic brew was shot to hell with thirty years of forced abstinence. 

“Oh, what a fearsome thing, indeed! A serpent to send many a’blushing maiden swooning!” Jaskier spun, landing in Lambert’s willing (if slightly unsteady) arms. Their teeth clacked together as they attempted to bite at each other’s lips at the same time, forcing a giggle out of both of them as they rested their foreheads together, that is, until Jaskier swayed just a little too far to the side and nearly toppled them both over. “Oh! Eh-hehe. Bed, dearest Lamb-chop, so I can eat my fill of you.”

“Melitele, I  _ hate _ that nickname.” Lambert growled into Jaskier’s neck as they swayed in circles until one of them hit the edge of the bed with their shin and fell over, taking the other with them. “And aren’t I the one supposed to be the one doing the  _ eating? _ I am the wolf here.”

“Mmm… you can, if you want. But I dare say, wouldn’t you like it the other way around?” Somehow, one of Jaskier’s hands had wormed its way into Lambert’s pants and gave his dick an assessing squeeze. “Though… It has been a while.” 

Lambert snorted. “For you, maybe. I’ve had plenty of practice while you’ve been… out.” 

Humming, Jaskier looked up through hooded eyes with a sly smile. “I’ve always loved your bravado.” 

“It’s not!” Lambert squawked, making Jaskier laugh as he ran his cat-rough tongue from Lambert’s collar, up his neck and over his ear, ending in his hairline.

“Sure, whatever you say, dearest.” Jaskier was glad that his Kitten was at his most comfortable, since it meant less layers to stumble through. Lambert, on the other hand… “I may love you beyond all reason, dear.” There was a warning growl in his voice. “But if you somehow rip this silk, I  _ will _ vinegar one of your brews.” He ended his warning with a nip to Lambert’s freshly-exposed chest, drawing a welt of a love bite that edged  _ just _ on the wrong side of painful.

“Got it. Silks for life.” Thankfully, Jaskier had never gotten in the habit of ever buttoning his doublet, except for the most formal of events, so that was easily shed and lost somewhere to the floor. His back-lacing pants, on the other hand… “How the fuck…”  _ Why the fuck _ was more like it. 

“The ties aren’t silk.” Lambert grinned at that, leaning into Jaskier’s exploration of the other side of his neck.

“Oh, thank fuck.” With a twist and deft usage of a miniscule Igni, Lambert burnt just through the cord and pulled the remains free with a tug. Purring in admiration of Lambert’s precise control, Jaskier leaned back to help shimmy his pants down.

Only to get stuck on his knee-high boots. 

Jaskier lost his balance, falling back onto the mattress, giggling as he tried futility to toe off his boots. “Fuck!” 

“Gods.” Lambert sat back, trying to grab Jaskier’s leg to help. “Stop wriggling, damnit! You want me to help you or not.” 

“No, no, I’m good.” He laid unnaturally still for all of a second before he burst into giggles again. “I love you.” 

“You too, you idiot.” Thankfully, Jaskier had a habit of tying his shoes with slipknots and not anything that would stop him from removing said boots quickly. While Lambert finally pinned one leg to his lap to work the shoe off, Jaskier reached for the boot on the leg hanging off the bed and tugged the string, loosening the top enough that Lambert could pull it the rest of the way off. “There.” Boots cast aside (including his own), Lambert looked up to realize he had become the most dressed one at the party and Jaskier’s chemise was nowhere to be seen… 

“ _ Fuck…” _ He had seen Jaskier in all his glory down in the baths, but this was  _ different.  _

“Mmm… you’re starting to sound like Geralt there, darling.” Jaskier couldn’t help but tease as the silence stretched on. Looking up at Lambert kneeling there, he gave a teasing grin. “Can’t have that, can we?”

“No… we can’t.” Lambert agreed, finally leaning forward and tracing his hands up through the fur on Jaskier’s chest, admiring the thickness softening the outline of his defined muscles underneath. “You’re beautiful.” Leaning down, his fingers tangled in the fur over his pecs as he kissed Jaskier softly.

Jaskier returned the kiss with one of his own, nails scratching at the scruff on Lambert’s cheeks. “You are too. Missed you.”

“Mmm…” Lambert hummed in contentment, closing his eyes and letting his head rest in Jaskier’s hands. 

“Oil?”

“Hmmm, what?”

“Where do you keep it? This is your room, after all.”

“In the kitchen with the other baking supplie-  _ Oh _ ! Oil!” Lambert’s eyes snapped open and he scrambled off the bed amid Jaskier’s giggles. It took a couple tries, but he managed to find a large tin of sword (Hehe,  _ sword _ ) oil base in one of his saddle bags (they had been sitting there for a week already, he should probably get around to that… eventually. Not tonight. Tonight was Aide-Jaskier time). 

Crawling back into the bed, he handed over the oil with the look of a puppy doing a good. “Good boy.” Jaskier purred, managing to unscrew the lid without spilling the thickened oil anywhere. “Oh, yes, this’ll do nicely.” He scooped up a generous amount and rubbed it between his fingers, testing the consistency. “Now, come over here, dear Kitten, and let me get you ready.” Lambert did as he was beckoned, taking Jaskier in hand while Jaskier’s lubed finger traced his entrance before pushing slowly in until the first knuckle, letting Lambert adjust to the sensation first.

Diving down, Lambert kissed Jaskier deeply, muffling his moan as he pressed back, his hand finding Jaskier’s wrist to make him push in further. His channel was hot and his ring tight, but he soon loosened enough that Jaskier thought he was ready for a second.

“Now tell me, dear one, who else have you bottomed for?” 

“Ju-just you.” Lambert gasped, groaning at the stretch of those musician’s fingers exploring his hole, stretching him in preparation for a third and reaching deeper than he remembered until-

There!

At the first brush, Lambert leaned back with a whine. “Ai-again, damnit.” He demanded, grinding down on Jaskier’s hand.

“As you command, my dearest.” Jaskier agreed with a grin, moving around until he found the spot again and  _ pressed,  _ making Lambert howl. With a pleased humm, Jaskier briefly withdrew his hand and gathered more oil before working his third finger in, spreading his fingers as wide as he dared, nibbling on Lambert’s neck hard enough to leave love bites on even a witcher’s toughened flesh. 

Bouncing on Jaskier’s fingers, Lambert whined before eventually stilling with a pout. “Enough.” he panted, “That’s enough. I’m ready.” 

Stretching his hand once more, Jaskier agreed, though he warned that he would go slow regardless. “I don’t care! Just get in me already.”

“Patience has never been one of your virtues, has it, Kitten?” Jaskier teased as he took his rod in hand and gave it a few pumps, spreading the oil over it with a twist of his wrist. “Tell me if I need to stop.”

Lambert snorted at that. “I know I can take you. Now hurry up and get in me!” 

“So impatient.” he murmured fondly, removing his fingers from Lambert and used his hand to help line himself up, he pushed in until his head was barely past the rim and stayed there.

“Jaskier! That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Lambert snarled, trying to push back onto Jaskier’s dick, but the grip on his hips stopped him from moving more than the smallest way possible. 

“Mmm. Let me savor this.” Jaskier’s eyes were closed, as he let Lambert fall into his lap, centimeter by centimeter. “It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna die of old age before you get  _ in me _ , at this rate!” Lambert groused, hissing as the stretch started to edge on too much.

“Then I can take _ all the time in the world. _ ” Jaskier teased, though he did start moving a bit faster until he bottomed out to Lambert’s hiss.

“Oh, shit. Oh,  _ Fuck _ !” Lambert, hands braced on either side of Jaskier’s torso as he used him as a prop, grinding down while Jaskier held perfectly still, savoring the feeling. “ _ Move _ already, damnit!”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier’s eyes were closed, his head thrown back into the pillow, a cheshire grin on his face. “I think you’re doing pretty well on your own.”

With a growl, sharp fingers dug in, making Jaskier yelp and his hips jerk. In response, Lambert groaned at the sudden movement. “Again.” he growled, trying to provoke the same reaction a second time.

“Fine.” Jaskier sighed dramatically, his hand on Lambert’s hip to steady the younger, “I wanted to  _ savor _ our reunion, that’s all, but if you want it-” In a move that Lambert was completely unprepared for, Jaskier flipped them and Lambert’s back hit the mattress. “-so be it.” 

Lining back up, Jaskier grabbed Lambert’s thigh and tucked it into the crook of his arm to give him more room to thrust in. With this change in position, Jaskier was able to grin down at Lambert as he could do no more than pant and hold on as Jaskier moved.

“What,” Jaskier angled himself to brush Lambert’s prostate, drawing a high-pitched whine. “Nothing to say? How’s my performance? Three words or less.” 

Pulling himself together, if barely, Lambert managed to growl out a ‘kiss me’ before burying his fingers in Jaskier’s hair and pulling his head down, forcing the issue. Not like Jaskier complained, nipping Lambert’s lip as he thrust in and ground down so that Lambert could really  _ feel _ it. 

He could feel the coiling in his gut, telling him he was close and snaked one of his hands down, taking hold of Lambert’s prick and giving it a few tugs in an effort to make sure that the younger spilled over the edge first. “Cum for me, little Lamb.” With a snarl, Lambert did, not having enough air to complain at the pet name as he peaked. 

Lambert’s was enough to throw Jaskier over the edge as well, and they both stilled before Jaskier collapsed on top of Lambert.

“...Ugh.” Coming down back to himself, Lambert groaned and pushed Jaskier off him and nearly onto the floor. “Get your fat ass off me.”

“...And  _ there’s  _ the Lambert I love and missed dearly.” Jaskier groaned, not bothering to correct his landing beyond bracing one foot on the cold stone floor to keep him on the bed.

“You didn’t miss me, asshole. You went and forgot about me.” He didn’t bother to even move beyond throwing one arm over his eyes as he savored his human-speed heart rate while it lasted. 

Jaskier hummed, a sad edge to the note. “I always thought something was missing though. Beyond the mutagens that I’ve somehow managed to not die without. Geralt helped, a bit, but I did miss you, even on a subconscious level.”

Peeking out from under his arm, Lambert rolled his eyes before rolling onto his side to look at Jaskier clearer. “Sap.”

“Your sap.” 

Lambert nodded, extending a leg to push Jaskier the rest of the way off the bed when he went to get back on properly. “Yep. Speaking of. I got the oil, you find a damn rag.  _ Someone _ made me all  _ sticky _ . I hate being  _ sticky _ .” 

Jaskier snorted, but rolled the rest of the way off the bed instead. “Yes, dear.” Thankfully, Lambert kept a wash basin next to his door. The pitcher was only barely full of water, but it was enough to wet the rag hanging on the hook beside it and wipe down his own stomach before rinsing it and tossing it at Lambert, splatting on his face and pulling a squawk from the half-dozing wolf. 

“Bastard!” Lambert hissed, but used the rag to clean himself up with a grimace. “You could at least be gentle with me.” 

“Yeah, I could.” Jaskier walked over and nuzzled Lambert before taking the rag to rinse off again and hang back on the hook. “But you ‘don’t do that cuddly shit’, remember?” Which was a lie, and they both knew it. “Now scoot over.” Jaskier managed to hike up his leg and planted it on Lambert’s hip, pushing the heavier wolf over on the bed, just enough to pull the blankets down for both of them. With a grimace, he tossed the soiled top blanket in a corner before bullying Lambert under the rest and sliding in beside him. Lambert’s arms wrapped tightly around his cat’s unprompted, his nose pressed into the pulse point of his neck, where his scent was strongest, and breathed. Jaskier held on just as tightly with a smile. One day, Lambert would actually ask for the cuddles he wanted so much.


	12. Wolves really do sleep in winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a small BJ scene in this chapter between the page breaks, if you're not into that.

Yawning, Jaskier sat up, shivering as the morning air hit his bare skin. At his hip, Lambert snuffled around in his sleep before settling again, making Jaskier give a soft smile. No matter how long he had traveled with wolves, it always melted his heart when he got the rare opportunity to see one completely unguarded. They seemed so young, without the furrowing of their brow and the scowl on their faces. He knew though, that he would never see the same thing while they were conscious. It just wasn’t a ‘wolf’ thing to do. 

What was even more unusual, was that this was the second morning in a row where he was up before his wolves. Apparently, they really did sleep in the winter, unlike the rest of the year out on the path, even with trusted company to watch their backs or not. 

Carefully, Jaskier slid out of the bed, not wanting to disturb Lambert’s sleep while he couldn't sit still any longer. Stretching, he had to stifle a groan as his hips reminded him just  _ why _ he should still be in bed, cuddling his little wolf. After their nap following the first one, they had woken up and then it was Lambert’s turn to take a fellow witcher apart. 

And apart, he did. Humming, Jaskier carefully stretched the soreness out before he even attempted to do anything more strenuous than, say, oh, _ bending over to tie his boot _ , for example.

It was odd, being able to rise from a lover’s bed in his own time and not having to sneak out to avoid said lover’s family, be it spouse or father. Taking his time to hunt down his chemise, he sniffed the garment before deciding it was better to take a quick scrub down in the springs before joining the other wolves for breakfast and, likely, morning training. 

Jaskier frowned at that. As Aiden, he had been quite strict with himself while at home, training in the half-light of twilight each morning and evening with his brothers and sisters, while the noon hours were taken for more personal pursuits. Then again, he hadn’t actually  _ trained _ in thirty years. The occasional bar fight and following Geralt around like a lost puppy notwithstanding, he was embarrassingly out of shape for a Witcher. 

Pulling his pants up, he frowned at the snapped string he usually used to tie it shut in the back and the slightly charred edges. How had that ha- oh. Jaskier snorted as he remembered, untying the knot and attempting to salvage as much length as he could so he could at least get down to the springs or his rooms for a change of clothes. Then again, hmm… 

Jaskier stared at Lambert… or more like, the lump under the blankets in a distinctive Lambert-sized mound. 

As much as he loved them, silks just were not appropriate material to be getting sweaty and dirty in. Vesemir had said that he had leftovers from the other Wolves for when it was a school, but those would also likely need a lot of work to bring up to the standard of even using as just workout clothes.

Dropping his boots by the door, Jaskier strode across the room and slipped back under the covers.

* * *

Carefully, Jaskier rolled Lambert onto his back, sinking down so that his head was level with the wolf’s hip. Nuzzling the semi-hard dick and giving it kitten-licks, it quickly rose to the occasion, much to Jaskier’s enjoyment. Between the usual morning wood and what must have been a good dream, it was only a matter of minutes before Lambert started to writhe in his sleep, near to climax.

Lambert woke to wet heat around his prick and a pair of hands kneading his hips, pinning him down. “Mnh...Wha?”

“Morning, dearest.” Jaskier murmured, giving Lambert’s tip a kiss and a kitten lick, one hand giving the base a stroke while he talked. “Can I borrow some clothes?” Jaskier looked up through his bangs before diving back down and hollowing his cheeks with a deep suck.

Despite his best efforts Lambert couldn’t give more than garbled out a response while one arm flailed in the general direction of his storage trunks while the other held onto Jaskier’s hair for dear life. Finally, with a deep moan, Lambert tipped over the edge into Jaskier’s mouth. 

“Y-yeah.” Lambert panted, petting Jaskier’s hair absently as he caught his breath from his unexpected wake-up call. “Left trunk. Green lid.”

Looking up, Jaskier gave him an open-mouth grin, holding the scent of sex on his soft palate as long as he could so that he could savor it. Too soon, he closed his mouth and surged up, giving Lambert a deep kiss. “Thank you.” Gentling him, Jaskier settled him back into the bed and pulled the sheets back up as he got back out of the bed. “Go ahead and sleep some more. I’ll talk to you later this morning.”

* * *

“Mm-kay.” Lambert nodded, rolling onto his side to watch Jaskier through half-lidded eyes. “Love you Aiden.”

Jaskier stiffened for a moment, glad that his back was to Lambert as he blinked slowly, mind finally making its decision. “Love you too.”

Going to the trunk, he flipped the latch and had to catch himself for a whole different reason. There, staring back at him, was his own medallion. The screaming cat was in profile, like the wolf medallions, on a flat disc. What was different from the wolves though (and, frankly, his own memory of the medallion), was that the one visible eye had a green stone settled in the enchanted silver. It was beautiful, Jaskier couldn’t deny it that, and completely his style, but it was too much to unpack for now, so he set it aside.

After the medallion, he shouldn’t have been surprised, but there it was: his own light armor. It was better taken care of than he had ever seen it, the leather and light plates were polished to the point where they gleamed. The thick navy blue of his gambeson was lovingly patched as well, small rips and tears hidden with small stitches and same-colored pieces of fabric, covered all over with intricate embroidery in a shade of forest green that only the most discerning eye would notice. He doubted that Lambert would have let his brothers touch it, so this was all his own stitching. He could also tell where old embroidery was ripped out and replaced with newer, better done, stitching. 

Under that were his, Aiden’s, finely brushed cotton blouses and leather trousers that were more popular among Witchers, reinforced as they were for both protection and longevity. At the bottom, it didn’t even surprise him anymore to find his weapons, every one in a custom sheath and- he checked a stiletto- polished to a high shine. After a quick debate with himself, he decided to take only the bare minimum for now. These pieces had been in Lambert’s capable hands for thirty years now, carefully maintained for a lover that he never thought he’d see again. They were more his than Ai-Jaskier’s by now. 

Grabbing his trousers, blouse, leather vest and a basic set of knives to tuck into his person, Jaskier grabbed his boots and slipped out the door and made his way down to the springs for a quick scrub-down. As much as he loved the scent of sex, especially sex with Lambert, he didn’t think the wolves would appreciate him smelling overly of their youngest’s lust. It was bad enough that they all knew about it already, Jaskier didn’t want to try to push the issue. Maybe when he knew Eskel and Vesemir better, he wouldn’t care so much. 

After scrubbing down, Jaskier refilled Lambert’s pitcher with fresh water straight from the spring to replace the old water they had both used last night. Hopefully, it would still be warm by the time the wolf woke up, but he doubted it. 

Still walking a bit funny because of the leather clinging to damp skin ( _ Not _ because he was well-fucked, you pervert), Jaskier managed to make his way outside to the training yard after only getting lost twice. (One was to the kitchens, so that was a bonus as he grabbed an apple to tide him over until breakfast.) He blinked, spotting Vesemir in the middle of the yard, running through sword drills, and opened his mouth to ask if the old man ever slept before thinking better of it and taking the stairs like a sane person up to the obstacle courses on the walls. 

Starting out with stretches he remembered from his training days, he was pleased to note that he had maintained at least most of his flexibility, if not all of it. His sexcapades across the continent had been of  _ some _ use after all… if he didn’t bother to mention the year that he spent a good few months with a mummer troupe, touring Toussaint. Between sampling some truly divine bottles of wine, he had learned some acrobatic feats that would make his fellow Cats green with envy if they ever saw. Unfortunately, the skills would be lost on most of the wolves present. 

Taking the course at a jog the first time around, he played around with the different obstacles, figuring out how he could get around each one before moving on to the next. Maybe, when spring came, the Wolves could take him out on the Killer before they all went their separate ways for the summer. 

That was another thing. Jaskier stopped and stared at the swinging pendulums, not moving as he was caught up in his own thoughts of the future. Would he be expected to travel on his own now that he was a Witcher, or would he go with Geralt? Lambert? 

“Go Cat!” Vesemir’s voice barked, snapping him out of it and he leapt forward, nearly smacking straight into one of the moving pillars in the process. Moving back out of range, he pouted down at Vesemir, who stood next to the controls with a raised brow.

With a huff, Jaskier weaved his way around the poles, only getting a few love-taps in the process, which was a lot better than both of them were expecting. Only a few more traps and tricks and Jaskier hit the end of the course: a wide gap in the wall that was likely taken out in the attack that they had yet to repair. Backing up until he hit the pole from the previous log jump with his back, Jaskier took off at a run, leaping across the expanse and, by some miracle, made it to the other side in one piece.

“You good Cat?” 

“Y-yeah. All in one piece.” He called back down, patting himself to check for injuries. 

“Good. Now jog the rest of the loop back to the beginning and do it faster.” Vesemir instructed in a no-nonsense tone, going back to his own morning practice.

“Yes, sir.” He was planning on doing that anyway, but it was good to know that he had the mentor’s approval. 


	13. Cats are fucking crepuscular, Geralt

Jaskier was completing his third circuit by the time the rest of the wolves started emerging from their dens to exorcise. Surprisingly (or not so surprisingly), it was Eskel that emerged first, yawning and still lacing up his gambeson against the cooler fall air. Silently, he took up one of the steel practice swords and started warming up with it, clearly still half-asleep since he hadn’t noticed the Cat (Witcher) perched on a pole practically above his head.

“Morning, Eskel!” Jaskier chirped, startling the large Witcher, who shot off an aard without looking as he spun on the spot and brought his sword up to bear. 

“Oh, shit!” realizing what he had done, and who he had hit, he quickly dropped his stance and weapon, cautiously jogging over to where Jaskier had landed. “Geralt’s going to kill me. Are you ok?”

“Peachy.” Jaskier groaned, carefully rolling to sit up. “Remind me to never startle you again. At least until my quen has at least a fighting chance.” Eskel snorted at that and gave him a skeptical look. Unless he somehow had gained the skills of a Griffin with signs overnight, it was unlikely any sign that Jaskier could throw would ever come close to his. 

“Right. Still,” He held out a gloved hand to help the smaller man up, “Sorry about that.” 

“No problem, really. It’s not the first time I’ve had an aard toss me across the room.” Jaskier took up the offer and brushed stray straw off his clothes. “Though I much prefer the hay bales to trestle tables and spilled banquet foods. Less stains to scrub out of silk. Unfortunately, I had to burn that doublet. I liked it too, but berry compote just  _ does not  _ come out of gold-threaded silk.”

Eskel gave Jaskier a blank look and Jaskier caught himself and coughed in embarrassment. “Ah. Right. I guess Geralt wouldn’t have told you about that, would he?” 

“No.” Eskel’s grin pulled strangely with his scars, but it was still a sweet look on him, “but sounds like the kind of mess Geralt would find himself in.”

“ _ Right _ ?”

“Any broken bones?” Vesemir called across the salle, pulling attention from the two younger Witchers.

“No, sir,” Jaskier called back, pulling away from Eskel. “Just a bit of bruised pride.”

“Good.” he nodded back to the walls. “Two more loops, then I want you to move on to signs, got it?” 

“Yessir!” Instead of jogging all the way across the training hall to the stairs, Jaskier scrambled up the rough-hewn wall in a way that reminded the Wolves of Lambert. Vaguely, they mused, that must be where he had gotten it.

Less than a half-lap later, Geralt came out of the doors, frazzled and wide-eyed. A yawning Lambert trailing shortly behind, dragging his brigidine coat behind like a snuggle blanket. “Vesemir! Jaskier’s missing! He wasn’t in Lambert’s room when I went to wake him up.”

“Told you, asshole, fucking Cats like to train too bloody early in the morning.” Lambert muttered, scrubbing a hand through his ungreased hair, making it stick up in bed head spikes.

“Jaskier won’t get up before noon if I didn’t pry him out of bed each morning.” Geralt muttered back, glaring at the youngest wolf for taking  _ Jaskier Missing _ so casually. What if he got lost? Not everywhere in the castle was secure, what if he fell and broke his neck? 

“...You ever let him take a nap after lunch?” Lambert raised a brow. “Cats are fucking crepuscular, Geralt. Might actually get up on time if you let him sleep when he’s actually tired.” 

Looking up from finally getting his brigidine on, he saw Geralt’s look and bristled. “What? I can be smart, dumbass, _ just because I don’t like books.. _ .”

“ _ Morning _ , you two.” Jaskier called down, letting himself fall off the wall and jogging up to the pair. “Ooh, did Geralt pull you out of bed, sleepy kitty?” Jaskier cooed, cradling Lambert’s head in his hands, carding his hair back into place. “If the big bad wolf lets us, I’ll let you nap with me later, ok? In the meanwhile, let’s do some warm-ups, then breakfast. Sound good?” Lambert hummed, nodding, his eyes closed. 

“Ok. In the meanwhile, can you pretend to be awake? Come on, open those eyes.” Jaskier tapped Lambert’s cheeks until the wolf was able to look up with a small scowl and took a step back and out of Jaskier’s arms. “There we go. Thank you, Lambert.” With a grunt, Lambert walked into the salle itself, brushing Jaskier’s shoulder as he passed.

“Now you…” Jaskier reached up and attempted to card through Geralt’s ragged hair as well so he could tie it up in its usual half-up pony.

“You got up early.” Geralt was a little more aware, his pupils rounding out as he lightly grasped Jaskier’s wrists. “You’re never up first.” 

It was Jaskier’s turn to hum in amusement as he gently turned Geralt around and tilted his head back to fix his hair. “Well, you try to get up at dawn the next day when you consistently can’t manage to get to sleep before the witching hour, especially without a nap. And even when I go to bed when you do,” Jaskier lightly tugged Geralt’s hair in reprimand. “I wake up three hours later and finally manage to go back to sleep when you wake me up. I’m just constantly  _ tired _ , Geralt. Just lemme nap, ok?”

Turning when Jaskier finally let go of his hair, Geralt leaned in close to bump Jaskier’s chin with his nose in apology before following Lambert over to the training swords. It wasn’t an actual apology, but he would take Geralt’s version of promising to keep that in mind for the future. 

Watching after his wolves, he was interrupted by Vesemir’s reminder that he still had two more laps to go before moving on to the next thing. “Targets for signs are painted on the cairns over there.” He pointed to an unoccupied corner, where narrow but tall stone piles were built with a few stones with a number painted on them.

“Got it.” By the time he was doing his last round, Lambert had hopped up and had joined him on the wall, giving a merry chase as they ran through the obstacles, paying little mind to small scrapes they accumulated in the process. By the time that they got to the grand leap, Jaskier intentionally shortened his jump, clinging to the stones of the gap while Lambert soared overhead with an indignant yell. He knew, in the straight jog, that the wolf would catch him, even at his best. Chuckling, Jaskier bounced between the two sides of the broken wall and easily made his way down, jogging over to the targets. 

“You have four more laps, Pup!” Vesemir growled out a warning when Lambert went to turn around and follow Jaskier down. “The Cat’s done his already.” Technically, he still had that straight stretch to jog, but… 

He would have to deal with the two fooling around enough when it came time to spar, he didn’t have to deal with one or the other falling off the damn wall, so be it. Watching the cat circle the cairnes, Vesemir wondered if he would have to prompt the boy with his signs, or put out some emotional fires. He was a Cat, after all, and known for their emotional instability. Each one he had known- and he had known quite a few, back in the day, before the  _ incident _ that resulted in banning Cats from most, if not all other Witcher schools- had their own unique version of insanity. This one, it seemed, was for the most part stable, except for when being faced with having to fight another human being. It was a potentially dangerous personality trait and he would have to see if it extended to hunting as well. Eventually, when his skills were better than abysmal, he would have to send the boy out on a hunt in the surrounding mountains. 

Until then…

His technique was sloppy, as he attempted an igni against the rocks, and thus weak. It was only a few tossed sparks, little more than a distraction if he didn’t improve. And the boy seemed to notice it as well, if the frown of concentration was anything to go by. Vesemir was about to speak up to prompt him to try again, when the cat closed his eyes and just  _ breathed _ for a moment before forcing his hand into the sign. That time was better, though still not a threat. And on the Path, he would not be able to sit and meditate to cast a sign beforehand. It had to come naturally, or not at all. 

Deciding that he had a handle on his own training for now, Vesemir turned to his two star pupils as they ran sword drills side-by-side. “Right, you two. Up on the walls. Five laps, then grab the Cat and come in for breakfast.” He instructed, heading inside to check on their morning meal. He had set aside some kasha to slowly simmer by the fire, but now heated up the skillet to cook sausages and eggs to compliment it, along with a loaf or two of buttermilk bread from yesterday’s oven and butter made fresh from one of Eskel’s milk-goats. 

\---

It was halfway through the meal when Lambert noticed, spoon halfway to his mouth as he stared at Jaskier before recovering and shoving the food into his mouth. “You found it.”

“Hmm…?” Jaskier hummed in confusion before following Lambert’s eyes down to his body. “Oh. Yeah. I did ask if it was alright, but you were a little… distracted when you said I could borrow some clothes this morning.”

“No! Uh, no, it’s fine. It’s yours, after all.” Lambert tried to act casual, but it came across more as being shy. “I, uh, I fixed your gambeson too.”

“I saw. The stitching is beautiful, so thank you. And you really took care of my knives too.”

“So… you’re not wearing it.” Jaskier was confused for a moment before he realized that Lambert was absently playing with his medallion while he stared at where Jaskier’s should hang. 

“Oh... No.” Jaskier shook his head, covering Lambert’s free hand with his own and giving a squeeze and a bittersweet look. “It’s just… I’m not ready yet. Give me a little time first. It really is beautiful, what you did, so thank you. I’ll cherish it forever.

Lambert shrugged, indifferent, focusing on his meal. “I got the rock as payment a few years back and thought it was pretty.”  _ Thought of you _ he couldn’t quite make himself say out loud.

Either way, Jaskier smiled sweetly and tilted his head. “And I bet you would have done it for free, if they didn’t have the coin to pay you.”

“Yeah.” Lambert wouldn’t bother denying to the Cat. “But this one, they said I could keep whatever I found in the cave, so I did. Most the other shit I hawked over the next couple of months, but I kept the rock. 

Jaskier gave him an adoring smile. The wolf pup would never admit to it, but he was a complete pushover when it came to making others happy. As long as you weren’t an asshole, Lambert would bend over backwards for an honest thank you. That pretty rock probably really was the only thing he was paid for that contract- probably from a child, knowing Lambert. There wouldn’t have been other things to hawk- not unless he had been pissed off at the local noble and stole from him. And if he had, most of the proceeds would have been redistributed through the victimized village. 

Lambert was like a prickly pear. Spines on the outside that can and will find their way under your skin, but get past that and he has a sweet center.

“Have any idea what kind of rock it is?” 

“Not a fucking clue. It was pretty and shiny.” Jaskier wasn’t surprised. But then again, sometimes Lambert just knew these random tidbits of information that you just didn’t know  _ where _ it came from, because it certainly wasn’t from any book that they kept in the keep. There was a good chance, if he were to ask the same question next winter, Lambert would have the answer and still wouldn’t admit to where he got the information. 

The rest of breakfast was spent in relative peace, aside from a small spat after Geralt had managed to snag the last sausage for himself. “That was mine, Geralt. It was on my plate.”

“Hmm… Was it? It was sitting there by itself, I thought you didn’t want it anymore.” As if his mouth couldn’t melt butter. 

“That’s because I just grabbed it, you heathen!” Jaskier hissed, his eyes slitted in anger.

“Alright, take it outside, you two.” Vesemir interrupted before the two started throwing down in the main hall. He didn’t push too hard to stop it though, since hand to hand combat is what he was planning to test the Cat on next, just not with Geralt as his sparring partner, but when an opportunity presents itself, one must take it. “Lambert, join us when you’re finished with the dishes.”

Lambert gaped at Vesemir, pointing an accusing finger at Geralt. “But it’s his turn. I’m not supposed to do them until tomorrow!” 

“And Geralt will take your turn for tomorrow. And Jaskier the day after, then Eskel” Vesemir stated, no-nonsense, “Now go wash the dishes and join us after.” 

Pouting, Lambert eventually nodded and stood up to gather the dishes, watching Jaskier attempt, and fail, to push Geralt out the door in the direction of the salle with Eskel following close behind, an expression between humor and worry on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crepuscular, if you haven't gone '...what?' and looked it up on your own like I tend to, is the scientific name for creatures that are most active around twilight hours, which cats certainly are. And Jaskier Deserves Naps, especially if he's playing to tavern audiences during the evening and then dragged out of bed before sunrise the next morning, just to be walking all day behind a horse.


	14. I thought this was a spar

The thing is, Geralt won’t move if he doesn’t want to. That’s a fact of life that all his brothers had learned at one time or another… at least, after his mutations, that was true. Before the trials, he was a scrawny stick of a kid, but he was scrappy.

Jaskier, on the other hand, refused to acknowledge this fact, and thus had tried every trick in the book at one point or another, legal or not, some more effectively than others. This, though, was outright cheating. At least, that’s his opinion, finding himself staring at the sky from the middle of the salle, flat on his back. What… happened?

“You ok there, Geralt?” 

“Hmm…” He blinked. No, that was still the sky. “Fuck.” He blinked again, realizing that there were no snarky comments from the sidelines, either.

“What, don’t tell me that you’re feeling old already? You’re younger than me!” Jaskier walked closer, his hand out, intending to help Geralt stand back up. Instead, as soon as the Cat was within range, Geralt grabbed his ankle, quick as a viper, and  _ pulled _ . 

Jaskier squawked and flailed, but with another tug and roll, he lost the fight with gravity and fell down on top of Geralt. “Why you!” growling, Jaskier lunged with a playful snarl and both his hands were caught by Geralt. They rolled around for a bit, neither taking it seriously, even with over-exaggerated yowls and growls as they did so. 

Vesemir, rolling his eyes but not bothering to stop the rough-housing, gestured for Eskel to pick up his practice sword and spar a bit with his old mentor while they waited for the youngest wolf to finish washing up. It wasn’t like he had many to do, since Vesemir usually washed as he went, so it was really only the dishes that had touched the dining table. 

One of the yowls was different from the others and Vesemir held his hand up for Eskel to hold as they both looked over at the wrestling pair. Geralt had Jaskier in a hold that the cat couldn’t quite wiggle out of, despite his hissing and spitting.

“Mercy?” Geralt grunted out, reinforcing his hold.

“Fuck you!” Leaning down, Geralt bit Jaskier’s ear, just enough to feel, in reprimand. 

“Language.” In response, Jaskier snarled out something in a foreign language, obviously another curse, making Geralt sigh. “That’s not what I meant, Jask.”

Eventually, Geralt let go, only for Jaskier to launch himself back at the Wolf. Even with the harsh words, they could tell that the duo were having fun wrestling. And when Lambert finally came out to join them, Jaskier launched himself at that wolf as well, pulling a startled squawk and pinned to him to the floor of the entryway of the salle. 

“Really?!” Lambert wasn’t near as successful pinning the slippery Cat as they rolled down the handful of stairs into the training yard. To an outsider, nobody was quite sure if they were wrestling… or if Lambert was dealing with an overly-affectionate and grabby cat. Either way, it seemed like Jaskier had grown half a dozen more limbs, as he made grabs for Lambert that the youngest couldn’t quite thwart. “What happened to playing with Geralt?”

“He wasn’t playing fair.” Jaskier managed to wrap his arms around Lambert and give his ear a nip to show what he was dealing with.

“You mean he wasn’t letting you win.” The pout on Jaskier’s face would have been at home on any toddler’s face. 

“Meanie.” Just to spite him before backing off, Jaskier licked a long stripe up the side of Lambert’s face, tasting the sweat from last night still on his skin. “Mmm…” He couldn’t help the brief snuggle before dancing back and out of Lambert’s reach. His mouth was open in that grin again, holding the scent against his soft palate, Lambert knew from experience. 

“Your turn!” Jaskier turned to Eskel with a grin, but tilted his head and didn’t move, waiting for the least known Wolf to answer the unasked question. He did so, sliding his foot back and raising his hand, ready.

More cautious, Jaskier circled for a bit, studying what he could of Eskel, intentionally trying to pull from his memories things that Geralt, and more often Lambert, had told him about the eldest Wolf brother .  Deciding that it wasn’t much, Jaskier just decided to have at and damn the consequences. Eskel was strong with his signs, yes, he had seen that earlier. He was kind. Well, he was shy at least, and had felt regret at blasting him across the salle unintentionally earlier that morning. He was also large, but Aiden had taken down larger, and so had Jaskier, to a lesser degree. It’s not like this was life-or-death. This was an assessment of his abilities and just how far they had atrophied during the past decades. Some, like his agility, he had kept and even improved, surprisingly, over the years, along with his endurance for walking. As a witcher he wasn’t necessarily out of shape, but it was a whole different level to keep up with a horse on a semi-continual basis for the better part of twenty years.

He lunged.

And ate dirt.

Groaning, it wasn’t exactly an unexpected result, but disappointing nonetheless. “You okay?” Eskel asked, not dropping his defensive stance, but looking concerned nonetheless. 

“Yeah. Good shot.” Jaskier gave a thumbs up while still on his back before rolling over and kipping up. “Try two!” 

His second attempt ended much the same as the first: with Jaskier on his back, a good few feet away from Eskel as he used aard to blast the Cat back. 

“Okay, yeah, no. Can you  _ not  _ do that again?” Jaskier pouted. 

Eskel was about to do just that and use purely physical means to toss back the Cat, but he caught Vesemir shaking his head and gesturing for Eskel to continue to do the same. He could guess why Vesemir wanted him to continue, but was too soft-hearted to want to intentionally irritate the Cat. 

It took a few more times for Jaskier bouncing off the shield Eskel kept pulling up before something unidentifiable in the air seemed to shift. Jaskier crouched, staring at Eskel without blinking, tilting his head slightly while he calculated. Standing back up, but still slightly hunched, that charged atmosphere made Eskel tense up. Without taking his eyes off the Cat, who suddenly seemed to fill his senses with his presence, he reached out and sensed his surroundings for the attack coming from behind. The short hairs on the back of his neck were raised and he felt eyes on his back, like he was being stalked.

He was so busy trying to figure out where the attack was coming from, that he nearly missed Jaskier’s lunge. This time, the Cat swerved, managing to dodge the first aard and then pulled up a barely-working heliotrope that deflected the second instead of dispersing the energy. Eskel had to give him points, not many went for heliotrope when quen was able to do the job just as well. But the third aard caught the Cat and tossed him back. 

Jaskier rolled with the push, using the momentum to roll back up to his feet and launch back at the Wolf before he had even gotten completely back upright. 

Next, Eskel went for a controlled Igni, trying to dissuade the Cat, but he dove through the fire, ignoring the mild singeing. Some time during the dive, a knife pulled from somewhere appeared in Jaskier’s hand and nearly ripped a hole through his gambeson. Absently, Eskel thanked every deity he could think of that he was wearing his leather and plate reinforced gambeson, because that knife looked  _ sharp _ . 

The knife never left Jaskier’s hand, but it was just as deadly as if he was throwing it. The strikes were precise and only his ability to give all his attention to the Cat saved him from any serious wounds, although it was a close thing, as a new scar in the leather by Eskel’s neck could attest. Even having never sparred with the Cat before, the fight felt familiar, as he dodged patterns of movement that he had seen implemented from a different body. 

And that was his mistake, falling into rhythms that he was used to performing with his brothers. It made him compliant of his surroundings, not bothering to look around and keep his senses open, so when a third knife kissed his neck and a knee to the small of his back appeared, it caught him unaware.

The scent though, was familiar. “I thought this was a spar.” He stated, keeping his eyes locked with Jaskier, who looked like he was standing down, panting and still somewhat wild-eyed.

“Oh, it was.” Lambert answered right next to his ear. “So kneel down.”

“What?” That was… not how they usually ended a spar.

“Trust me.” He could feel that Lambert’s eyes were not on him, but on Jaskier as well. “Kneel.” He did so slowly, opening his palms to show that he wouldn’t attack. “Now touch the ground.” Confused, he leaned forward enough that his palm was resting on the dirt. Leaning as he was, he had pulled himself away from Lambert’s knife and closer to Jaskier, who was watching with slightly clearer eyes as his breathing calmed down.

“Ten, Nine, eight…” Lambert prompted, and Jaskier took up the count, closing his eyes for a moment when he hit one and swayed a bit with a sigh before gracefully crouching down in front of Eskel and offered his hand and a small smile. “Good spar. Thanks for dealing with me. Maybe next time, hm, I’ll manage a hit.”

“Uh… yeah. Maybe.” He had questions. So, _so_ many questions. Least of all ‘what happened?’ Taking Jaskier’s offered hand in reflection of that morning, he let the surprisingly strong Cat haul him back to his feet. 

“My turn!” Lambert shoved between the two of them, smacking the flat of his dagger’s blade against Jaskier’s in greeting. “Let's show them what daggers can do, yeah?” 

“Spoiled.” Jaskier shook his head, but agreed nonetheless. Their spar was closer to a dance, teasing and unrealistic moves scattered throughout. Watching them, Eskel realized where Jaskier’s fighting style had seemed so familiar. It wasn’t so much that he had Lambert’s technique, but that Lambert had picked up more of his fighting style from the Cat school than he ever did with the Wolves. As much as he was pack, there was only so much that they could have taught Lambert about his own style and what would work for him within the bounds of the Wolf School’s techniques. All the variety he needed to be exposed to died during the attack, he could see that now. They really had failed their youngest.

And in response, the Cat school had picked up the slack. Where Wolf school would move a certain way in response to an attack, Cat school, he could see, moved in another, equally effective way. Years, decades, they had spent during the winters, trying to break him of the habits the Cat school had given him, trying to fit him into what was acceptable ‘Wolf’ behavior, thinking it was wrong. Only to find that it wasn’t a lack of technique that forced these habits, but learning a second school’s ways. 

It was this spar, and how relaxed Jaskier was during it, that showed the true spirit of what he had retained and lost during his time as a bard. That, and he would find out later, Jaskier the Bard was taught how to wield a dagger as well by Geralt, so the skill was exorcised.

That also explained the hint at Geralt’s larger-than-life techniques in his fighting style as well. It wasn’t as prevalent as Lambert’s ode to the Cat school, but still there. The dismissive lack of caring over being hurt, going full-in during a fight, irregardless of any injuries he might sustain. 

There was a sense of fluidity, watching Lambert and Jaskier fight. They knew exactly where the other would move and then moved to either deflect or dodge. 

It was a testament to how deeply Eskel was watching the two, that he was startled when Geralt tapped his arm to pull him away for his own morning practice. It was also proof that they knew each other so well that Eskel was able to just raise his brow and just barely nudge his head in the duo’s direction for Geralt to understand the question. In response, Geralt just grunted out ‘feral, both of them’ and that was it. 

Eskel’s snort of laughter nearly cost him his fingers as he parried Geralt’s practice sword. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blargh, are you tired of 'The Cat' as much as I am. Remember, this is for NaNo, so there's practically _no_ editing whatsoever happening here. Hopefully, I'll be able to motivate myself to come back and fix it at a later time, when all the retail-madness dies down a bit and I have the brainpower to say more than 'I can see if I can order that for you if we don't have it in stock! ❤'


	15. I know the value of a judiciously applied spice!

“Comfortable?” 

“Mgh…” Lambert barely opened his eyes long enough to swat a vaguely amused Eskel away. “F’koff Sk’l. M’tired.” 

“I can see that. You sure  _ you’re  _ not the cat here?” That drew a snort from Jaskier, who was absently petting Lambert’s hair as he was snuggled on the floor in front of Jaskier. The bard, on the other hand, had taken over one of Vesemir’s overstuffed winged chairs by the fire and was balancing one of his composition books in his lap, quill twirling in his writing hand while the open bottle of ink sat on a side table he had acquired from… somewhere ( _ Where did he find it? _ ), along with a mug of small beer they were both sipping from in turns. 

“He does make a lovely kitten, doesn’t he?” Jaskier teased softly, making a few notations on whatever he was writing. “Care to join us?” 

“Hm? You sure? You seem…” Eskel took in Lambert’s relaxed face and Jaskier’s absent, thoughtful one. “Close.” Frankly, it was the most relaxed that he’d ever seen the youngest Wolf. He didn’t know if it was the relief of finding out that the Cat was alive, or just their general presence around each other. There had always been this tension around Lambert, like he was always waiting for the next blow, whether physical or mental, and decided it was better to lash out first instead of risking being hurt. Even when he was loose and lost in the moment or concentrating on one of his hobbies, there was still something holding him back. Now, it was gone.

“It’s fine.” Jaskier gestured to the chair across the way before going back to petting Lambert. “I’m afraid, though, neither of us are much entertainment at the moment. And besides” He grinned and raised his eyebrow, “unlike what either of our reputations imply, neither one of us are rude enough to do anything risque in a semi-public space. At least not here.” 

“That’s fine.” sitting down, he looked around, trying not to seem awkward as he rhythmically patted his knees. “Uh… what are you writing?” 

‘How cute’ Jaskier hummed with a small grin. “Witcher or not, I’m still a bard first, currently, so I’m working one one of my compositions. Or, actually, writing down some of my songs that I had… forgotten and I want to make a record of them before something happens and I end up forgetting again.”

“That won’t happen.” Eskel stated earnestly, “We look out for each other.” 

Jaskier blinked. Sure, he would die for Lambert, and commit murder for Geralt, and he was sure both of his wolves would do the same for him… but he barely knew Eskel, beyond what the past day and a half had shown him and the stories that the others had told him. And Vesemir… was Vesemir. And an elder. And his wolves father (figure) besides. The man was barely tolerating him, if only for his boys’ sake. One toe out of line, and he had no doubt that he’d be out in the snow faster than he could say ‘Bard.’ “Still, I like to have a record of my music, just in case. Sometimes it's also nice to go back and look at my old notes and tweak something, or remind myself of how a song goes if it’s been a while.” 

Eskel grunted his understanding, nodding. “Like the bestiaries from a lot of the old masters. Half of them ended up being journals saying things like ‘Loth Graven had Ghouls, paid half a copper per head.’ and ‘Maribor. Hanged Hag Inn has the best fish stew.’”

“Well, does it?”

“Does what?”

“Have the best fish stew? I can’t say I’ve ever been to the Hanged Hag.”

Eskel gaped before shrugging. “Not really a big fan of fish, honestly.” 

Jaskier blinked, then nodded. “...Fair. Depends on the kind of fish. Though.” Jaskier smirked, looking down at the top of Lambert’s snoozing head, listening to his breathing and heartbeat for a bit before deciding he was truly out. “I have never seen anyone put away as many fish in one sitting before as Lambert. And us Cats are supposedly all for the fish.” 

Snorting, Eskel nodded. “You ever _seen_ him fish?”

At that, they gave each other commiserating looks. “He says ‘it takes too long otherwise’.” 

“The poor fish.”

“But on the other hand, if I remember correctly, he has some of the best precision control I’ve ever seen with an igni, and the fastest to pull up a quen than I’ve seen in quite a while.”

“That’s true.” Eskel had to give it to the youngest. Where he had the magical ability to just plow through near anything with his signs, and Geralt just had raw power, Lambert had focused on precision and speed, and it showed, especially in the two signs he used most frequently. Lambert could never burn down a building with a single sign, but he could light one of his bombs at fifty paces- mid-air- with barely a flash of warning. And his reaction time with quen had just become a natural extension of that ability. 

A while later, Geralt came to find them, mugs of something steaming and spiced clutched in one hand, book in the other. He handed the second mug over to Eskel and they curled around each other on the large pelt before propping open the book and taking turns to read quietly to each other. It was adorable and peaceful. If Jaskier could, he would frame the moment forever and keep it in the bottom of his bag to stare at. 

Gently nudging Lambert toward the pair curled up on the pelt, he watched the youngest flop over his head coming to rest on a lap and the hand not holding the book took to petting his hair. 

Geralt grunted in question as Jaskier stood up and stretched, capping his ink bottle and wiping off the nib of his pen. “That smells fantastic, is there any left?” He nodded and turned the page for Eskel seamlessly. “Great. I’ll be back.” Taking his notebook and writing supplies up to his room, he dithered over his lute before deciding that he could practice later, when Lambert wasn’t asleep and the other two weren’t reading, curled up on the rug.

He caught Vesemir in the kitchen, right when he was ladeling up three more mugs of the spiced brew and handed one over to Jaskier. “Posset. Enjoy it while it’s still warm.”

“Thank you. It smells wonderful. I didn’t think you could get cinnamon this far north.”

“I’m sure you’ve had the odd non-coin payment or two. I have an ongoing contract with a spice merchant. I escort them up from Zerrikania, and in exchange I get a selection of their spices- as well as the coin for the mercenary work.”

“So, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg, what other kinds of spices do you have, hidden in your stores?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Vesemir murmured, taking a sip of his own drink as they both walked out to the great fireplace, Jaskier carrying Lambert’s drink as well. “Can’t have you taking off with them and finding all my spices in one of the Pup’s brews.”

“I would never!” Jaskier gasped, mostly exaggerated, but ultimately sincere. “I, unlike your Pups, know the value of a judiciously applied spice!” 

Vesemir sighed the sigh of the truly weary. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you. I’ve never quite gotten it through their thick skulls that a small bag of mixed spices would do wonders for the Path. Live frugally, yes, but also take the joys in life where you can.”

“Truer words were never spoken.” Jaskier agreed before leaning in with a conspiratorial look. “Don’t worry, I  _ do _ have that little bag of spices for the road. It’s amazing what even a pinch of salt can do to a spit-roasted hare.”

Vesemir snorted. “I think we’ll get on just fine then.”

Making their way over to the pups, Vesemir claimed the chair that Eskel had abandoned, while Jaskier settled down next to the other three, nudging Lambert until he sat up and took his mug, sipping the warm drink with a contented hum. 

“I think we’ve all recovered from the excitement Geralt brought to our doorstep, so tomorrow, chores begin.” Vesemir announced, making eye contact with all four on the floor. “You too, Cat. The roof of the north tower started leaking over the summer and I wasn’t able to get to it earlier, so we need to fix that before the heavy snows set in. Also, the western wall. Let's try to actually finish that this year, and not accidentally blow up any progress we’ve made during training.” He was staring directly at Lambert when he said that. “Any other small chores you can think of, put it on the list and we’ll assess it for priority.”

“The hinges on your gate need oiled.” Jaskier spoke up, remembering how badly they creaked before… before. 

Vesemir nodded. “Then you can go around doing that. One of the boys can show you where we store the grease. Anything else?” 

“We should check the seals in the library. I felt a draft coming from somewhere in there earlier.” Eskel spoke up, holding up his book for example.

“Put it on the list. We also need to do some minor repairs to the stables. Geralt, you can get to that after taking care of the animals. Lambert, you can inventory the larder, make sure to make a list of anything that we need to process before it gets bad and we’ll make a day of it. After that, you can take Jaskier up and check the roofs, make sure that it’s just the one.”

Jaskier winced, raising a finger to object to the physical labor, but Vesemir just gave him a  _ look _ and continued on. “Even if you’re not good around a hammer, boy, you’re now one of our two best climbers. And if nothing else, you can help haul up materials.” Jaskier huffed, but nodded anyway, grumbling into his drink. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent doing various leisure pursuits, including, when Lambert finally woke up from his nap completely, a Gwent tournament that involved a lot more swearing and accusations of cheating than actual game play. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Jaskier just imply that he's pro-polycule? Not intentionally, but yes. (Sorry, I doubt that'll happen here, but we can always dream of it!) He's all for the Spice.


	16. Just shut up and climb already

“I hate this.” Jaskier stated, staring up at the sheer wall that he and Lambert were about to climb. They couldn’t take the easy path up, no, because  _ someone  _ hadn’t finished repairing it the previous winter. “So. Much.” 

“Just shut up and climb already.” Lambert responded, just as reluctant to go up. “Just be glad that it’s not the middle of a blizzard.” Securing the length of rope better around his torso, Lambert scouted the best handholds and started his way up, slowly but steadily.

“How about ‘no’.” Jaskier groused, following Lambert’s lead. “And here, I had finally been invited to the infamous Wolf’s Keep. I was planning on  _ relaxing  _ this winter.” Jaskier found a really good grip and used it to swing his way upward into a window sill. “Maybe play a little music in the evenings. Catch up on my composing. Maybe discover some lost Witcher lore in your library.”

Lambert snorted at that and looked over his shoulder to the Cat. “Give it a couple weeks until we’re snowed in. Then you’ll be  _ wanting  _ to be climbing the walls like this, just for something to do.”

“Pah, how bad can it really get? We’re not that far north.”

“No, but we’re in the mountains. Around Yule, we end up making a tunnel to the barns so we can feed the animals and check on them, not just a path.  _ A tunnel _ . The snow’s deep enough, we put a roof on and it stays there for at least a month.” At least with them bitching at each other, it took their minds off just how far up they had to climb. “One winter, one of the storms managed to punch a hole in the barn’s roof. We had to turn the indoor salle into a temporary barn. Still smells like horse shit in there if we close the doors for too long.”

Jaskier winced. He could only imagine how badly the stench permeated the entire keep that winter. There was a reason, despite having so much room available, the animals were kept in a barn completely unattached from the main keep. And if this keep was anything like Stygga or Kaer Seren, the animals had actually been moved  _ closer _ from where their barn would have been traditionally located on the keep's farm land. 

It took a while and a few times backtracking, but they finally made it to the roof in question. Thankfully, there was a defensive walk under the eaves, much like the one connected to Geralt’s room, so they could set up there instead of the necessarily very pitched roof. Tying his safety line off to the underside of one of the roof beams, Lambert scrambled up onto the roof itself while Jaskier rigged up the pulley line so that one of the wolves below could attach the supplies they needed to the rope. They didn’t know what all they needed for the roof repair until they got up and inspected it themselves, so they rightfully didn’t want to haul up more on their backs than absolutely necessary. It could be as simple as replacing a tile, or one of the beams could have cracked. Tying the shorter end to the rail, Jaskier tossed down the longer end of the rope before heading inside to inspect the underside of the roof. 

Inside, the room looked much like Geralt’s did, except it was empty of all except for the stray piece of furniture and boxes that always seemed to find their ways into unused rooms. That, and the wooden flooring (unlike Geralt’s stone) was starting to warp and rot away. Opening the door and looking down, he could now see the unsteady, half-collapsed staircase leading down to the lower levels. Someone- likely Vesemir- had wedged a ladder awkwardly up the stairwell. It was enough to traverse a time or two for inspections, but no more than that. Rowdy and heavier-than-hell Witchers  _ with _ repair supplies might be just too much for the poor ladder and floor to take. He could see, though, that repairs were being worked on to make the tower accessible once more, if very slowly. 

“How does it look in there?” Lambert called, reminding Jaskier of what they were actually up there to do. 

“Oh! Uh…” Pulling himself away from the door and carefully crossing the floor, he inspected the underside of the roof tiles and their caulking for obvious cracking and/or water stains, as well as the roof beams’ integrity. “Yeah. Some of the caulking here looks wet.” It had rained overnight, so the cracks were obvious.

“Here?” Lambert tapped on the tiles over where Jaskier was looking at.

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah. Looks like something hit here, broke all the tiles in the process.” He explained, tapping on each one of the cracked tiles, spiraling out from what looked like the worst damaged one. “At least whatever hit the roof here wasn’t too big. We’ll only need twenty or so tiles.” 

Jaskier winced. It just went to show how little he knew about re-tiling roofs, especially when maintaining such a large area as the keep. True, they had been forced to just block off certain areas of the keep after they had collapsed in on themselves, but they were also doing their damndest to repair what they had left. He had thought that they would only be replacing maybe one or two tiles, but from the area that Lambert had tapped out, it sounded like a good chunk of the roof was going to be replaced. “I’ll go get on that, yeah?” Jaskier called up before walking over to their pulley system and jangling the rope to get someone’s attention. 

Thankfully, it looked like it was Geralt on spotter duty as he came out from the shadows of the tower to look up at Jaskier. “Ready?” He called, raising his voice only slightly to be heard over the wind. Sometimes, Jaskier forgot just how good Witcher senses were, especially now that he had his back. Hearing, sight, smell (gods, the smells. It was like he had been noseblind all this time), all were enhanced by the mutations. 

“Yeah. Looks like it's just some cracked tiles though.” Geralt nodded, tying the bag with their tool to the rope and stepping back just in case the wind decided to blow the bundle around. 

“How many?”

“Lambert said about twenty or so.” Jaskier replied, slowly hauling the tools up, wincing when a cross-breeze smacked the bag into the wall a few times. “Maybe some more if the wind keeps going as it is.”

Grunting, Geralt nodded and went back inside, where their building supplies were. In the meanwhile, Jaskier hauled the tool bag up and over the rails and unpicked the knot, handing up the hammer to Lambert when he stuck his head over the eaves to ask for it. Why he needed it, Jaskier didn’t really want to know. They were already broken, so what was the point of breaking them more? 

Getting the bag completely detached from the rope, Jaskier flung the free end back down the side of the tower, ready to haul up the next load. 

Speaking of, Geralt whistled, drawing Jaskier’s attention back to the bottom of the tower. Looking over, Geralt indicated that the next load was ready to be brought up. The tiles were protected by being neatly stacked in a wooden bucket that they normally used for hauling water. 

The last load was a bucket full of mortar, already mixed and ready to use to set in the new tiles. In it was the trowel that Geralt used to mix it, sticking straight up the center. Staring at it as he hauled it over the edge, Jaskier was amused, to say the least, but a little confused as well. Wouldn’t they have hauled up the trowel along with the rest of the tools? 

“You know how to do that?” Lambert asked, looking over the edge at where Jaskier was staring at the bucket of mortar. “Or do you want to lay the tiles up here instead.”

“No, I… it's just shoving the mortar in under the tiles when you put in the new ones, right? I think I can handle that.”

“Suit yourself. It gets a bit messy though, just a heads-up, if the mortar is a bit too thin.” He could hear Lambert as he scrambled back up and over to the damaged part of the roof, using the hammer to break away the damaged tiles. Watching broken mortar and pieces of the tiles falling through the battens, it made more sense now. Broken tile pieces were easier to remove from the whole in pieces since the ledge on the bottom edge was no longer held as securely. And with the new hole in the roof, Jaskier could pass the tiles through instead of risking Lambert’s life by repeatedly scrambling over the slick tiles.

After passing the last few through, Jaskier set to securing the new tiles to the battens with the mortar, filling in the gaps and insulating that part of the roof as well. Hopefully, the repair would keep for a while yet, or at least until the staircase was repaired so they wouldn’t have to make such a climb a second time. 

Swinging down to stand next to Jaskier, he offered to climb down first so they could get all the supplies put away sooner, instead of waiting for one of the others to reappear. Agreeing, if only because Lambert seemed a bit too enthusiastic for the climb back down, Jaskier went to secure the first bucket- full of leftover tiles and scraps that they couldn’t risk crashing down and possibly hitting someone- to the rope, but Lambert shook his head and tied a slip knot in the end instead.

“This way’s a lot faster.” Curling the rope around his waist, then his thigh, he secured it in place by putting his foot in the little loop of the knot. Then, careful to keep hold of the other end of the rope, he climbed over the railing and levered himself down the side of the tower. Indeed, it only took a handful of minutes instead of the half hour that it would have taken climbing down. 

At the bottom, Lambert untangled himself, then gestured for Jaskier to tie the supplies to the short end, saving a trip or two. When it came to Jaskier’s turn, though, he was a bit hesitant. He had seen how Lambert did it, and that it was perfectly safe, but still… if he wasn’t careful, he would be in for a miserable week while his bones healed. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He hadn’t lived this long by being careful. Besides, wasn’t that the nature of a Witcher in the first place: to do things too dangerous for a human to handle? 

Wrapping the rope around his waist, then between his legs like Lambert had shown him, securing it with a foot cradled in the re-tied slip knot, he took a deep breath and held on to the other end of the rope in a death-grip, having to trust his own strength to literally keep him suspended in midair on a single rope. 

He wasn’t afraid to admit later that he squealed the first time a cross breeze made him sway a bit, cursing up a storm enough to make even Lambert pause in admiration. His descent though, was a lot slower. While Lambert said that it was better to just go at it with a bit of speed, he decided that, for once, caution was the better route to go. 

Eventually, though, his feet did touch solid ground again, much to Jaskier’s relief. His knees, on the other hand, decided that he was still mid-air, what with how wobbly they were as he tried to walk straight. “Don’t  _ ever _ make me do something like that again!” Jaskier hissed, personification of a cranky cat as he stalked off. He much rather liked to depend on his own strength and skills to hold him to the wall, not the will of a single rope and some questionable rigging that was only meant to haul the weight of a full bucket or so. He knew he was light, especially compared to Wolves, but he was no dainty thing under his clothes. His tailor worked  _ hard _ to make him seem as small as he presented himself.

It actually reminded him of the first time that Geralt had seen him without his shirt on. They had been traveling together for a while when they had run across a stream deep and placid enough to spend some time soaking in. Jaskier, being the young immodest thing he thought he was, didn’t even wait for Geralt to check for drowners first before stripping down to his smalls and diving head-first into the cool water. The first handful of times it happened, he hadn’t caught Geralt’s expression, but once he did, it was hard to ignore. He was gobsmacked, halfway through taking off his own shirt when he caught sight of Jaskier’s body. Like he couldn’t understand how there was so much muscle under the supposedly lithe form. 

The pouf at the top of his sleeves and the angle of the cuts, while still the peak of high fashion, also hid the breadth of his chest quite nicely, while also emphasizing his trim waist. His pants though, despite Geralt’s complaints were the most functional part of his traveling/performing clothes. The truly fashionable thing was to wear pants that ended at just under the knee and hose with shoes, and that just wasn’t reasonable to travel in. They were loose, disguising his well-muscled thighs, along with his knee-high boots.

Jaskier hummed, contemplating his footwear. Maybe, if he decided to go the more Witcherly route, he should actually heed Geralt’s advice and get a more functional pair of boots. (Not meaning to mention that the new, more functional ones, would match with his armor better than his grey knee-highs, as much as he loved them so dearly.) Then again, it had been twenty years that Geralt had been complaining about his footwear. It was a matter of principle at this point.

“It’s over here.” 

“Hmm?” Jaskier blinked himself out of his musings, “Pardon?” 

Lambert gave him a look, proving that he knew that Jaskier’s mind had been half a continent away. “The oil for the hinges. You volunteered to grease them last night.”

Jaskier blinked, cocking his head. Now why would he do that? “I… did?” 

“Yep” Lambert popped the ‘P’, waving Jaskier to follow. “You bring up the issue, you get to fix it… unless it’s too big of a thing to do by yourself, like the wall. Means Eskel’s  _ all  _ snug up in the library, trying to find his ‘mysterious draft’.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but to gape. That was… devious. Genius, yes, but devious. And they probably all knew what he was doing, too. 

“I guess that just means that I found the filing system in the library to be atrocious and some of them obviously need to be copied out to preserve their integrity.”

Lambert gave him a side-eye, then rolled his eyes. “Too late. Vesemir usually does that during the summer, and Eskel helps with it during the winter. Apparently it's a very slow process.”

“Hmm… well, damn.”

“Doubt they’d turn you away if you volunteered, if you  _ really _ wanted to help copy out books.” He shrugged, “But you  _ are _ allowed in there whenever we’re not training or doing chores. Sometimes it's the most comfortable fire for quiet nights, compared to the one in the main hall.”

“So the Geralt and Eskel reading thing is a normal thing, and not an excuse to cuddle?”

“Yeah.” Lambert nodded, opening the door and propping it open while Jaskier passed inside. “They started it when they were learning to read in the dorms, apparently, and they just never stopped. I wouldn’t know anything about it though.” 

“Oh, I know.” Jaskier gave the youngest wolf a hug until he was shrugged off with a scowl. There really wasn’t much that he could say about the entirety of Lambert’s time training. Brought in late, loner, and his whole cohort dead, between the trials, and the progrom. Aiden had tried to provide at least some sense of community to the younger wolf, but it was hard. Likely all that the cats that Lambert had trained with were dead now as well. That, or one of the insane cats of the Dyn Marv caravan. 


	17. Is that Purple?!

Grease. Everywhere. Jaskier groaned, futilely trying to scrape the thickened oil out from- where the gods above did he manage to get it there?- the back of his arm,  _ under _ his shirt sleeves (ah, and this shirt would likely have to be burned too, if he couldn’t salvage it from the oil stain. He liked it, true, but it was also a thirty year old shirt and had already seen better times).

“Try this.” Eskel offered up a bucket of wood ash and an old rag. “It’ll cut the grease, then it’ll rinse off easier when you can wash off.” 

Jaskier grunted, skeptical, but took a handful of ashes to the grease and scrubbed with the wet rag. It took a few minutes, but it did actually work. “...Huh.” 

“What, you’ve never made soap before or used ashes on your cookpot?”

“No, I…” Jaskier furrowed his brow, thinking further back than just his time with Geralt. “It was always the assistant’s job to make the soap. And I’ve always used sand to wash my pans.”

“You never saw Geralt using ash when it was his turn?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. He would either just spit-roast everything he caught, or I would be the one using the pot. And then I would have to be the one scrubbing it also, since I was the one using it.”

“... Ah.” Eskel grunted, ruffling his hair in frustration. “Forgot Geralt’s a shit cook outside of the kitchen.”

That brought an unexpected snort from Jaskier and a brief laugh. “Hear tell it, you’re all three shit cooks.”

Eskel’s half-smile was unfortunately transformed into a snarl, but the light in his eyes conveyed his amusement. “Unfortunately, that’s true. I wouldn’t trust anything Lambert cooks  _ in _ a kitchen either.”

“I heard that!” Lambert growled, coming over with a bucket of fresh water, still warm from the spring, for Jaskier to rinse off with. “My noodles really stick to your ribs.”

“And the spoon. And the pot. And my bowels.” Eskel retorted. “I can’t shit for three days after your so-called noodles.” 

“Speaking of, whose turn was it to cook today?” 

Eskel just gave the younger a blank look, watching his eyes widen in realization. “Oh, shit!” Lambert scrambled up the stairs and out of the springs’ anteroom, supposedly running to (or most likely, away from) the kitchen. 

“What do you think?” Eskel asked, watching after Lambert. “Cheese board or sandwiches?” 

“As long as it’s edible, I don’t care.” His tone was nonchalant, but he was amused nonetheless. “Now, can you get the back of my arm for me? I haven’t the faintest how I got that there in the first place.”

It was Eskel’s turn to snort. “Sure. Plans for the evening?”

“Not really sure yet. Why?”

Eskel shrugged, taking the rag and working the ash paste into the back of Jaskier’s arm. “If you want, I don’t think anyone would complain if you practiced after our meal.”

“Practiced… wh-” Jaskier was confused for all of half a second before it hit him. Turning with a grin, he eyed Eskel. “You. Like my playing.”

And, oh-hoh, wolves  _ could  _ blush. “Yes, you’re rather skilled.”

“I!... Thank you.” Jaskier blinked, too used to Lambert’s scoffing and Geralt’s dismissiveness that Eskel’s honesty caught him off guard. “Do you have any requests?”

“Not really, no.” Eskel looked away, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes as he managed to get the last of the grease off his arm. “Maybe some of the older pieces, and maybe something you’re working on, if you want to share. You don’t have to practice in your room, if you want to.” 

Jaskier hadn’t been practicing in his room, not necessarily, but he had been maintaining his lute the other day before bed. He hadn’t known who it was that had done it, but he had heard a set of footfalls stop outside of his door. Nobody ever knocked, so he wasn’t positive exactly who it was, but he had an idea now that it was indeed Eskel at that time, not Geralt as he had previously thought.

“The library actually has fantastic acoustics.” He continued, voice diminishing as he grew more shy. “Sometimes I practice in there.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asked mildly, sensing that if he was too overly enthusiastic, he would chase the larger witcher away. But inside, he was ecstatic. As much as he loved Lambert, and Geralt was his best friend, they just didn’t understand music the way he did. To find another entertainment-inclined Witcher was a gold mine. It didn’t even really matter if Eskel performed musically or some other form, as long as it was something that wasn’t just another one of the ‘F’s of Witcherhood: Fighting, Fucking or Food. 

“I, ah… I’ve been teaching myself the flute.” 

That… Jaskier blinked… was not what he expected. “Huh.” 

“Yeah, I know. Stupid, huh?” Eskel scoffed, girding himself to be laughed at.

“No, not at all. Sure, that’s not what I would have pegged you to play, what with-” Jaskier gestured to his face with a grimace, “-and all. Wouldn’t that make it difficult?” The cleft left in his lip from the scar meant that his mouth couldn’t close properly, on top of his facial muscles not quite working as they should any more.

“It does, sometimes.” Jaskier was struck again with Eskel’s honesty. “That’s why I do it.”

Jaskier got it. Or not really, but he understood forcing yourself to push the limits of what you could do. With being blind in one eye, his depth perception was shit, but that didn’t stop him from dancing around tables and various patrons in the different taverns that he played in across the continent. He had just learned how to use his other senses to make up for it.

Actually… that probably explained how he got grease on the back of his arm and had managed to splatter mortar down the  _ inside _ of the front of his shirt (not that he had told Lambert that) during the resetting of the tiles. He had missed with a trowel full of mortar, and somehow it managed to fall cleanly down his shirt, missing his face by pure miracle. He had probably hit the back of his arm on a freshly-greased hinge at some point too. 

“Hey, woodwinds are not exactly my specialty, but I do know the basics. We can practice together some time and I can see if I can give you some tips.”

“That would be great, actually. Thank you.”

Jaskier nodded, determining that he was as clean as he was going to get without stripping fully, and used the clean rag and warm water to finish rinsing the rest of the ashes from his skin. On the positive side, his skin was now grease-free… on the negative, the ashes had also stripped him of any moisture this skin had managed to retain in the frigid weather. Thankfully, he had some cold cream in his bag to fix that. 

Sighing, Jaskier inverted his shirt and stared at the streak down the front from the mortar. “Huh. That’s… impressive.” Eskel commented, also staring at what looked like a shit stain down the front inside of Jaskier’s shirt. “Just soak it in the bucket and whoever’s on laundry duty will get to it. I… thought you were helping Lambert on the roof-”

“It’s mortar.” Jaskier knew what he was thinking. That… didn’t help, really. They used what was on hand, and their mortar was usually of the more… organic variety. 

“Geralt-”

“Mixed it, yeah.” Definitely organic then.

“Soak it. It’ll be easier than the grease to get out, at least.”

“...Yay.” Jaskier tried to be enthusiastic, he really did… but ugh, his  _ clothes. _ Speaking of, he looked around, not spotting any of the spare clothes that had been stored down here last time. He resigned himself to walking up to his room shirtless. Or, actually, Lambert’s room. His own clothes were all his performance gear and he needed to just put it all aside for the winter. 

Making his way up to the main keep, they split before the main hall, Eskel heading into the kitchen to salvage what he could of Lambert’s attempt at cooking while Jaskier had to cross it to get to the more residential parts of the keep. 

Vesemir looked up from the tapestry he had laid across an empty stretch of the great hall’s tables, carefully repairing a torn section right through an unfortunate depiction of a Witcher’s face, and grunted in surprise. “Right.” Carefully putting down his tapestry needle and standing up, Vesemir easily caught up with the shivering Cat. “Clothes. Follow me.”

Jaskier did so, but not without a confused whine in the process. He was  _ cold,  _ damnit, and wanted a shirt, a blanket, and, hopefully, a Wolf to snuggle with. In that order precisely. And now he was following Vesemir… somewhere in this gods-forsaken eternally frozen keep. He was an elder, there was no way that he could, in good consciousness, tell the man ‘no’. 

Melitele, was it getting colder?

“In here.” Vesemir opened a door and waved the bard to enter first. Inside were shelves upon shelves of… storage trunks. Some had names carved in little plackets attached to the front, others were painted, but most of them were plain. “Take what you want. I don’t think any of their previous owners are coming back, at this point. And you need something warm-” He looked back at the cat and blinked, “Right.” He stated, as if realizing just how true that statement really was. Jaskier could swear that he could feel his lips turning blue. Reaching into the first trunk behind him, Vesemir pulled out what turned out to be a child’s fur-lined cloak. “Put this on in the meanwhile. I’ll prepare you an empty trunk to use for the winter.”

“Thank you.” And he didn’t mean just for the cloak. It was a bit short, sure, but it was also lined in fantastically warm rabbit pelts. Rubbing his arms until the cloak had warmed up a bit, Jaskier dove head-first into the trunks, evaluating each one of the pieces before putting them back or into a ‘maybe’ or ‘yes’ pile. The hardest part though, was that his Witcher Practicality teachings were warring with Aiden’s flair for dramatics and Jaskier’s desperate need to be the fashionable center of attention. Wolf clothes were… mostly boring, in comparison. Black was, unsurprisingly, popular, along with brown and, more surprisingly, red. Blue, his preferred color, was sparse enough that he grabbed every single piece, whether it would fit him or not, no matter the state it was actually in. He would assess them for actually keeping it later on, when he had gone through everything. 

“What. The fuck. Is this?” Jaskier held up… was it a dress? He wasn’t quite sure. Mage’s robes?

“Ancient, that’s what.” Vesemir replied, eying the thing like a bad memory. “Even by my standards. I think one of  _ my _ teachers were wearing that, and they were old  _ then _ .” 

“Hmm…” Jaskier gave it an amused once-over and tossed it into the maybe pile. If nothing else, the quilted length looked damn warm. At Vesemir’s look, Jaskier shrugged. He wasn’t going to argue fashion choices with a man at least a century older than he was. 

Seeing as the Cat was thoroughly ensconced in selecting new clothes and didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon, Vesemir patted Jaskier’s shoulder and left him to it with the excuse that he was going to make sure that Lambert wasn’t burning his kitchen down. Nodding absently, Jaskier dove into another trunk.  _ Was that  _ **_purple_ ** _? _


	18. watching two prime examples of wolven ass haul butt

Geralt started awake, looking around for what had disturbed him. A knock on the door answered that question a moment later and he grunted before prying himself out of bed and walking over the door. It couldn’t be Eskel. He usually let himself in after the initial knock. Lambert never bothered, just waltzing in like Geralt never even bothered locking the damn door (He used to… but after the fifth broken lock, he just… gave up. If he truly didn’t want to be disturbed, there was a log that fit perfectly in two brackets in either side of his door). Flinging open the door-

Oh.

“What. The fuck. Are you wearing?”

“Like it?” Jaskier gave a half-wilted smile. “Vesemir said that it’s older than even him, do you believe it? And he’s ancient.”

“I believe it.” Geralt grunted. “What do you want, bard?”

Jaskier’s half-smile fell and he hugged the quilted long gambeson closer to his body. “I can’t sleep.”

“I thought you were sleeping with Lambert.” 

“I…” Jaskier grimaced. “Kinda? I guess. We’re having sex, yes, and I don’t usually bother leaving his bed for the night-”

“Not what I needed to know, bard.”

“-Ah, yes, but no. We’re not sleeping together every night...” Jaskier gave Geralt a crooked half-grin and held out his arms. “Cuddles?” 

Geralt grunted, standing aside to let Jaskier in. The bard would get this way sometimes, and with how deep the bags under his eyes were, he could tell it was one of  _ those _ nights. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not this time, no.” Jaskier whispered, watching Geralt pull out a second pillow and toss his heaviest pelt on top of his bed. The Cat got cold at night, even in the middle of summer, and he found that having weight on top of him at night calmed him down. When blankets weren’t available, Geralt would practically lay on top of him instead, so hopefully this would help. 

Turning around, Geralt flipped the covers, “Get in.” He gestured for Jaskier to crawl in and put himself on the side closer to the wall- just how Geralt liked- before looking back up at the wolf. Geralt grunted in approval before going around and untying the curtains around his bed, letting them fall closed as well. In the darkness, Geralt crawled in using his sense of touch and arranged the both of them in the center of the bed. He took the cat in his arms and rolled forward, pinning him to the mattress, much to Jaskier’s relief. 

He could feel the bard sigh, the tension in his body slowly releasing under the combined weight of the blankets and Geralt’s bulk. “My hero.” 

It was some time later, Geralt couldn’t tell how long in the dark, but he knew that Jaskier was still awake, because the bard had freed one of his hands enough to play with Geralt’s hair. “It’s the memories. Aiden… I… did some terrible things. I mean, that’s just what a Witcher does, right? But I hated every minute of it.” Jaskier murmured, almost to himself. “I don’t want to kill things.”

“Then don’t.” Simple, to the point. “You’re a bard.”

Jaskier hummed, approving and a little contemplative. “I guess you can’t tell me not to follow you on your hunts anymore then.”

“Only if you’re going to actually  _ help _ bard, and not distract me.”

“I can take care of myself, you know.” 

“We’ll see.” Geralt didn’t make any promises. “Vesemir has final say. He might keep you up here for the year before releasing you back into the wilds.”

“Grr… I’m a wild animal. No man can keep me in one place for long.” Jaskier teased, lightly worrying the piece of skin in front of his mouth, creating a mark that he knew would be gone by morning.

Geralt snorted a laugh and petted Jaskier’s hair with a hum. “You’ll behave, or Vesemir might just dump you off the side of a cliff instead. Sleep, Jaskier.”

“...Thank you, Geralt.” 

He hummed, petting Jaskier’s hair until they both fell asleep. 

Waking up, it took him some time to realize what was wrong with the picture. It wasn’t that it was any different from the countless times on the Path, curled around the bar- oh. They weren’t at an inn, but home at Kaer Morhen. And the bard that he decided to share his winter with… wasn’t  _ his _ bard, not really. On the one hand, he was the same obnoxious bard that he had known for years. On the other… A  _ Cat _ of all things, following him, sharing his bed roll, his coin. Laughing with him and fighting the humans when he couldn’t. 

Geralt sighed, pulling Jaskier closer. It was winter, they could afford to sleep in a little. Though, given how Lambert told it, he should be more surprised that Jaskier was still there, under his arm. 

“Jask?” Geralt murmured, pulling back to look down at the bard, who was definitely still asleep, if the little musical snores were any indication. Rolling back to try to relieve some of the heat between the two, Geralt hit something behind him with a small grunt. Though, the grunt wasn’t his. He froze, using what senses he could to assess his surroundings. Leather, lanolin, alcohol, honey. Lambert.

While not unusual to find one or both of his brothers in bed with him come morning, especially heading toward the colder months, he usually was at least  _ aware _ of when they crawled into bed with him. 

Grunting, he resigned himself to being stuck between Jaskier and Lambert until at least one or the other woke to free him. 

“Want me to take over?” No, Geralt did  _ not  _ startle at Lambert’s quiet voice. “Papa Vesemir sent me to get you up for training, oh, an hour ago.” And  _ there _ was the normal little shit. His second grunt was surprised, he was more willing to acknowledge that one, as he lifted his head and looked around the dark- oh. He had let the curtains down last night when Jaskier crawled into his bed. Now he was doubly surprised that Lambert’s entrance hadn’t woken him from the light peeking through the curtains. 

“No, we’ll be down in a bit.” Geralt dug his nose into Jaskier’s crown, burying his yawn in Jaskier’s sleep-mussed hair, before propping himself up to stretch. 

“Ok.” Lambert slipped out from the edge of the bed, a beam of light slicing across their eyes as he pulled the curtains aside, making both wolves hiss at the sudden change in light, effectively managing to wake Jaskier with a jerk.

The cat hissed as well, his eyes unfocused from sleep as he pulled a dagger from- where the fuck was he hiding a dagger? His smalls? It took a few moments, but Jaskier managed to blink back into focus, eyes narrowing in on Geralt and Lambert with a curious noise before reseathing his dagger- yes. He had a small sheath sewn into the hem of his smalls. 

“You looked cozy.” Lambert gave Jaskier a wide grin, bordering on lecherous. 

Jaskier hummed and grinned back, leaning over Geralt’s lap casually. “You know how I love cuddling up with wolves, dear Lamb.” Geralt rolled his eyes, if Jaskier was going to flirt with his brother, it wasn’t going to be with him in the middle. With a shove, he dislodged them both and crawled to the end of his bed, flinging open the curtain. And now it was Jaskier’s turn to hiss at the light. 

“Get up. We’re already late for training.” He stated, tying back the curtains amid Jaskier’s vehement protests. At the sunlight. At the training. At Geralt’s general cruelty of kicking him out of a warm bed. It was all fair game to the grumbling Cat, much to Lambert’s amusement. 

“Shut up, bard.” Geralt threw one of his own shirts at Jaskier, making Lambert laugh at Jaskier’s surprise. He stopped laughing when Jaskier pulled on the shirt without a blink, filling it out nearly as well as Geralt did.

“Ugh… Damn.” Lambert, just like Jaskier intended with the world, forgot that the Cat was nearly as broad as his brother. And he looked good in black. Jaskier put his own pants back on though, even if they didn’t quite match the shirt. 

Jaskier hummed in amusement, walking up to Lambert and pulled him up from where he was sitting on the side of the bed. Smoothing the wolf pup’s hair back into place, he scent-marked both of his cheeks in the process. “And now who's the one that’s not ready for training?” Jaskier grabbed Lambert’s hand and pulled him along, both following Geralt out the door and down to the outside training yard.

“Walls, you three.” Vesemir shouted over, not even bothering to turn to give them the stink eye, they could  _ feel _ it already. “Lambert, I sent you to wake them. Two more laps. Jaskier, I expected better from you. Geralt…” Vesemir sighed, actually turning to give the tallest of the tree a look, hands on hips, “Git.” He gestured at the wall with his chin. 

The lack of chastisement was somehow worse. He knew better than to sleep in.  _ Vesemir _ knew he knew better than to sleep in, and yet, he still did. And let Jaskier do so too. He had planned on letting the bard do as he would during the winter… but a lazy bard was one thing. A Lazy Witcher was a Dead Witcher. 

“Five laps, get going. Jaskier,” Vesemir paused, making sure that he had the cat’s attention. “Hesitate or fool around like you did yesterday, and it’s an extra lap each time.” 

Jaskier grimaced, but nodded, doing a few stretches before following the two wolves up on the wall, letting them get at least a little ahead of him. Lambert, at the very least, always ended up playing a game of Chase if Jaskier somehow ended up in front, and Jaskier didn’t exactly want to find out at this point if it was a Wolf thing or a Lambert being an Ass thing. 

He had a feeling it was a Wolf thing, if things he had observed from Geralt and Lambert in the past was any indication. Case in point, Cats were ambush predators. They, and he, were willing to sit relatively still, waiting for their prey to come within striking distance. That, or carefully stalk it. Wolves, to put it bluntly, chased. And would be willing to just out-endure near any other creature. And Jaskier knew his endurance was currently shit. Better than it could have been if he had taken that teaching position like Oxenfurt’s dean had offered a few years back, but still. Shit.

Also, it had the unexpected benefit of being able to watch two prime examples of wolven ass haul butt. Having to take the extra lap for letting himself get distracted was  _ worth it. _

By the time Jaskier finished, Vesemir pointed him in Eskel’s direction to work on his signs. Unlike the other three,  _ he  _ had been up at the correct time and had  _ finished _ his morning training already, so he could help Jaskier get his signs back up to snuff… or at least, not the miserable failure that they currently were. It was embarrassing, frankly.  _ Trainees _ had more of a grasp on chaos than he currently did. He was actually the one to  _ train Lambert _ on how to use his signs the most effectively, and here he was, barely more than sparks or a light breeze. 

“Maybe if you-”

“No,  _ no, _ I  _ know  _ what I’m doing wrong, Esk.” Jaskier ground out, shaking out his cramping hand. You would think, with years of playing the lute, that his hands would have retained at least  _ some _ muscle memory on how to hold his hands to make the blasted signs. “ _ Blast!” _

“That one’s called Igni.” Eskel corrected softly, completely serious.

Jaskier turned slowly to the bear-like Witcher (Seriously, the man should have been in the Bear school, with that bulk) and puffed up, making an odd chittering growl. “I. Know. That.” Eskel, the shit, just gave him a wide grin.

The other three turned to watch the spectacle, feeling chaos rising in the air as the two squared off, Eskel unworried and grinning, Jaskier hunched and growling. “Do you?” With a yowl, Jaskier tackled Eskel. Or, at least, he tried to. Heliotrope popped up between them with barely a twitch of Eskel’s hands. “You know that doesn’t work with me. How about you try Igni?”

“How about I Igni your  _ face!”  _ Jaskier snarled, and attempted to do just that. It worked, at least, to a point. There were still just sparks, but now there were  _ more _ sparks.

“ _ Enough _ you two.” Vesemir cut in between a still-grinning Eskel (though the skin around his eyes had tightened) and a not-so-quietly seething Jaskier. “Walls, both of you. Eskel, you know better than to poke cats. Jaskier. Too far.” 

“But he-” Jaskier blinked out of his anger, pointing at Eskel with wide eyes. 

“Too. Far.” He opened his mouth to keep protesting, but Vesemir gave him  _ that look. _

“Yes Papa Vesemir.” To that, the old Witcher sighed, but let it go. He had to deal with Lambert’s brand of spitting venom from the source for this long, he could deal with it from the cat too, until he settled better into his place. 

“Wall. Go. Run until you’ve got your head screwed back on straight.”

“That’ll take a while!”

“Do you want to join him up there, Pup?” Vesemir growled back, flicking his hand to point Lambert back to sparring with Geralt. Grumbling, Lambert eyed Jaskier climbing up the wall as if he was seriously contemplating it before shaking his head and turning back to Geralt and raising his sword. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello, Retail Hell Weekend is now over. I can attempt to write some more now~ (I'm updating instead of crashing and sleeping for half a day like I want to. Damn You NaNo.)


	19. I’m still me, just with a depth-perception problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: frank discussion of past injury and canon(?) disability. Bad Times flashback.

“Sorry about the whole face comment, it was uncalled for.” Jaskier spoke later that night, holding out a steaming mug for the other to take, along with a small pot of something with a waxed cloth covering tied over the top.

Taking both, Eskel set his book down along with the mug of warmed- it smelled like cider- drink, keeping the small pot in his hands. “Did Vesemir send you up here to apologize?” Eskel tilted his head just enough to hide his scars behind his hair, a small but insincere smile on his face.

“No, he didn’t have to.” Taking the chair opposite in the back corner of the library he found Eskel in, Jaskier leaned forward and braced his arms on his knees. “I can be an ass when I get riled up, I know this, and I went too far. Especially when it comes to disfiguring scars.” He thumbed at his cheek under his blind eye absently, expecting the divot of his own scar and was surprised when he didn’t feel it. He forgot, now, that along with his mutations and memories, his scars were also erased… at least, the ones on his skin. 

“And this?” Eskel held up the little jar, torn between opening it up to sniff and giving it back.

“It’s scar cream.” And now, he wanted to chuck it in the fire. Jaskier must have seen the thought cross his face, since he half-rose from his seat and waved his hands. “Woah, no! That-that came out wrong. It’s scar cream, yes. My own formula. Oh, that’s not explaining anything, let me back up.” At least Eskel had lowered his hand from going to chuck it into the flames, though his brow had raised to prompt Jaskier to speak quickly.

“Look, when they erased my memories and suppressed my mutations, they also erased my scars… most of them, at least. I had a scar- you can ask Lambert, if you don’t believe me- that pretty much destroyed my eye.” He traced how it bisected his eye. “I’m still blind in that eye, they didn’t bother to fix that, but now it at least looks normal… mostly.” 

Now that he knew to look for it, Eskel did notice that the eye that Jaskier had pointed out was a couple shades paler than the other. That, and it didn’t contract in the same way as the other. “You’re physically adjusting your pupils to match.”

“Yes, though it's mostly subconscious. Handy, that I managed to retain at least that piece of control from being a Witcher.” Jaskier grinned.

“So…” Eskel held up the pot. He didn’t want to say, but a knife through the eye didn’t exactly deserve to specially formulate a scar cream. 

“So, I know that during the winter, at least for me, my scars start to tighten up and hurt and I figured they might for you too. At the least, it has a nice soothing sensation and softens the skin, if you want to at least try it.”

Putting the pot aside, Eskel grunted his thanks and picked his book up, dismissing the Cat. Maybe he would ask Lambert about it later. He had heard that the Cat had healed his facial scars when it happened, after they had gotten infected during his first year on the path. He would see if Lambert used this so-called scar cream, or if the Cat was just being a vain fop. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Thanks.” Jaskier grinned, standing up, knowing that he was reaching the limit of his welcome with the other. “That’s all I’m asking you to do.” 

Wandering back down to the kitchens, Jaskier stood next to Lambert, who was cutting up various vegetables with Vesemir and stuffing them into jars. Silently, he slid over a knife and a portion of the produce with a silent order to help. Vinegar from some of Lambert’s failed brews was heating up in a large cauldron over the fire, making the whole first floor stink of it. 

“So?” Lambert prompted eventually, using more force than strictly necessary to shove some cauliflower into a crock with a grimace. 

Jaskier winced in sympathy. Pickled or no, Lambert just  _ did not do _ cauliflower, nor broccoli. “I don’t think he believed me, but at least he didn’t throw the pot into the fire.”

Lambert snorted, “He wouldn’t. At least not in front of you. He’s too  _ polite _ to do that.”

Jaskier nodded, “He should be asking you about my eye sometime then.”

“Yeah, hard to believe without the physical proof.” Jaskier hummed in agreement, taking an apricot and starting to slice it free from the stone, putting the pieces in an empty glass jar for brandied fruits.

“Eye?” Vesemir asked, staring hard at the younger man, scanning for whatever he had missed during his previous examinations.

“Oh, yes, you probably wouldn’t have noticed.” Jaskier chirped, tapping his cheek with a fruit-sticky thumb. “‘M half-blind. Wouldn’t have noticed without me telling you, eh? It’s been… how long now? Sometime between Stygga falling and my official falling out with the caravan, so I’m used to it now. And when I had no memories, it was just a normal thing for me, I didn’t even realize it  _ wasn’t  _ normal for quite a while.”

While Jaskier was nonchalant about it, Lambert grew quieter and the pieces of vegetable smaller. “Pup?” Vesemir asked, gently pressing down on his wrist before he butchered any more innocent produce. “Speak.”

“Those damn bastards were supposed to be pack!” 

“Clowder.” 

“Whatever!” Lambert stabbed the point of the kitchen knife into the tabletop (adding yet another scar to the wood, making Vesemir sigh), “They attacked you with a poisoned blade!”

“Who?” Geralt asked from the doorway, coming over, his eyes scanning Jaskier like he was trying to spot where he was bleeding out. “Where?”

Sighing, Jaskier turned around and perched on the table, amid Vesemir’s mild protests, and gave Geralt a hug. “Before I met you, Dear Wolf. I wasn’t… popular… in the caravan. I told you that already.” He pressed his head into Geralt’s chest, talking to his stomach. “So they attacked me, to punish me for failing a contract, with a poisoned blade.”

“It was a necrotizing poison.” Lambert growled out.

“Yeah. The knife that I was supposed to be using on the contract too.” Jaskier nodded. “It was a straight scar at first.” Blindly, Jaskier’s thumb traced Geralt’s over his eye, from mid-forehead to about a centimeter or two above the corner of his lip, “But then it got infected. Took my eye.” 

“ _ What?  _ But…” Geralt ducked down to catch Jaskier’s eye, looking between the two. “You-”

“Don’t seem half-blind? Lots of practice. That, and the entire time I knew you, I didn’t remember what depth perception actually  _ was.” _

“Do you need me to…” Geralt looked for the words that didn’t seem too patronizing before settling on, “do… anything for you?” 

Jaskier gave him a half-smile, just barely resisting a coo. “Just, don’t treat me any different than you already do. I’m still me, just with a depth-perception problem.”

Geralt blinked, digesting that, “ok.” He would try, at least, and that’s all Jaskier could ask of him. “What… was the contract?” He immediately winced, opening his mouth to immediately retract it, but Jaskier shook his head.

“No, that’s fine. It was this damn mage, this real sick bastard, heard about a prophecy dealing with all these baby girls. And, of course, he decided it was about these princesses. Doesn’t matter about the hundreds of peasant girls who were born at the same time. He wanted to  _ experiment  _ on them.” Jaskier didn’t notice Geralt’s paling, but Lambert and Vesemir did. “Paid the caravan a coffer of gold to go out and assassinate every little princess ‘born under the black sun’ we could find and bring their bodies back.” Lambert hissed through his teeth, moving close enough to either pull Geralt off Jaskier or shut the bard up.

“And… you didn’t.” Geralt forced his words through a locked jaw.

“I couldn’t. It was a little girl. An innocent. Children should be left out of politics, no matter how much gold we were paid. I thought I’d be going after adults, which, yeah, ok, still not good, but shit happens... she was nine.” Jaskier reached out and put his hand on Geralt’s elbow. “I kidnapped her instead and left her with a friend of mine, hoping that she would be safe with him.”

“Name- what was her name.”

“Melitele, I don’t know.” Jaskier furrowed his brow, seeing the wild desperation in Geralt’s eyes, even if he didn’t quite know why. “Ren-someth-”

Geralt broke free and ran, bolting out the back door, not even closing it behind him.


	20. ...Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... wow. I wasn't expecting so many comments last chapter. I'm pleased as punch, don'tgetmewrong, but it puts a bit of pressure on to do canon justice.

“...Was it something I said?”

Lambert and Vesemir exchanged looks. “Explain. I’ll go after the Wolf.” Vesemir instructed, pulling on his swords, “And finish up in here.”

Jaskier turned to the younger, wide-eyed with worry. “Lambert?”

“Her name was Renfri.” Lambert turned away, going back to the pickling, just for something to focus on that wasn’t Geralt’s most infamous- for good or bad- incident. “Geralt met her outside of Blaviken. I’m surprised he never told you what happened.”

“...Oh.” Jaskier said faintly, falling down onto the bench. “ _ Oh…” _ He moaned, his face in between his hands. No, Geralt had never told him what happened in Blaviken. Rightfully so, if the stories he had heard in Oxenfurt were anything to go by. He had hoped it was all an exaggeration, of course, but he wasn’t so sure. And he never dared to ask for the truth, if even spouting -foolishly- his ‘title’ had gotten him a- rightful- punch in the gut. “Tell me.” 

“To start off, She told him that her kidnapper raped her.” Jaskier choked and grew pale, turning and giving Lambert a wild-eyed look.

“I would never!”

“I know that. Let’s hope that Geralt remembers that.” Lambert poured Jaskier a shot of the vodka that was meant for the brandied fruit and slid it over. 

“I know I like them on the younger side, sure.” Jaskier threw back the shot and Lambert quietly refilled the small cup. “But they’re still  _ legal.  _ And  _ Willing.” _

“What about your friend?”

“I…” Jaskier had to search his memories. “Would have hoped so. I was desperate though. She needed to  _ hide.” _

“And you couldn’t take her with you.” Lambert stated, not questioning.

“No. The caravan would have killed her to fulfill the contract.” Lambert nodded, knowing how it went. He kept contact with the caravan, yes, but only out of professional courtesy. They… had fallen into all the bad parts of their own reputation honestly in the recent years. 

Lambert gave slicing the cabbage more focus than it really deserved. “...From what Geralt told us, it sounds like Renfri hired Geralt to kill Stregobor-”

“Good for her.”

“And then Stregobor turned around and hired Geralt to kill her.”

“Oh. No.” He could already see where this was going and downed the next shot.

“There was a fight. Geralt tried to stay neutral.” 

“Of course.” Jaskier’s laugh was so dry it hurt to hear. “Doesn’t he always?”

“Yeah, well, apparently she attacked him.”

“And he ended up killing her.”

“...Yeah.”

“...Fuck.”

“Yep.”

Jaskier leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Shit.” Standing up suddenly, he startled Lambert. “I’m going after the idiot.”

Lambert winced. “That may not be a good idea right now.”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s a little too good at flagellating himself if he thinks he has a reason to.”

“Good luck.” Lambert snorted, downing the shot that he had just poured for Jaskier as the Cat stalked out the back door after the other two. 

Thankfully, Vesemir didn’t let Geralt get too far. Though, from the looks of it, he was debating on jumping the wall and disappearing into the surrounding forest. “Geralt?” The wolf flinched, but otherwise ignored the bard.

Sighing, Jaskier nodded at Vesemir that he had it. The man nodded and stepped back, pulling his hand from Geralt’s back. Instead, Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt and pressed his forehead between Geralt’s shoulder blades. They stood there for a while, just breathing. 

Eventually, Jaskier spoke, his arms tightening around Geralt. “Stregobor’s a real piece of work, isn’t he? If I ever get the chance, I’d be glad to show him exactly what his intestines look like before pulling out his heart with my bare hands. And that’s not a new sentiment, either.” 

Geralt grunted, not quite making it to the point where he could laugh. “A little vicious, even for a Cat like you.” 

Jaskier hummed in amusement at his drawl. “Not for a bard though, we can get quite creative, remember? That one farmer that tried to stiff you on that Royal Griffin pair? I’d like to string up too. I think I even made a song about it, didn’t I?”

“It was a shit song.”

Jaskier shrugged, “I do admit, pique is not the right state of mind for a winning ballad, that’s for sure.”

“How’d it go again?”

Humming in thought, Jaskier, with a few false starts, finally remembered the right words. “You only get what you pay for, a copper for a feather, ten gold for a claw, you want the beast? Heed me and pay your Witcher the rest…”

“Yeah, that one.” They fell into silence for a while, but eventually Geralt let himself lean back into Jaskier’s hold, one hand clasped over the musician’s. “She told me it was the lesser evil, to kill Stregobor.” He volunteered, staring out at the bare skeleton trees of the orchards Vesemir maintained for the keep. “And then  _ he  _ said that she was cursed and had hypnotized the entire village. That it was the  _ lesser evil _ to kill her before she did something irreversible.” 

“What happened, Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was low, but Geralt was always attuned to it, no matter how quiet he thought he was.

“She had a crew of bandits with her and was holding the whole marketplace hostage, trying to force Stregobor out of his tower.”

Jaskier snorted. “Like that would ever happen.”

“No.” Geralt agreed. “We ended up fighting. I killed her with her own knife.” 

“Ah.” Jaskier closed his eyes and held on. “A proverbial ‘rock and a hard place’ if I’ve ever heard one. And Stregobor? Comfortable up in his tower the whole time?”

Geralt nodded, his chin resting on his chest like his head was too heavy to hold up. “He came out after I killed her. Turned the whole village against me. They ran me out with rocks.” 

And it hadn’t been the last time that Geralt had been paid with stones instead of coin since then, though Jaskier’s effort to reverse his reputation wasn’t without rewards. The chance of Geralt, of all Witchers, actually getting paid had gotten better in the intervening years. “The guy’s a real bastard,” Geralt grunted in agreement. “Hey. they’re making brandy fruit, want to sneak some past Vesemir and cuddle by the fire?”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but he turned and led the way back to the keep and Vesemir’s good liquor stores. 


	21. Scar Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic discussion of past injuries and non-standard medical practices. If creepy crawlies make you squirm, you should probably skip this one. 
> 
> _OKAY_ So, um, hi? I do have up to chapter... 23 already written. I was a bit more focused on the holidays (Blessed Yule! ...And happy all those other holidays too.) and a COVID-19 scare in the house. One roommate did test positive, so everyone's been in quarantine. I've tested negative, but its still likely I'm a carrier, so safe over sorry. Roommate had a mild case and is (mostly) recovered at this point.
> 
> (That, and I could have swore I posted this chapter already?) Well, off to the show! (chapter summary at the end, for those that go ew bugs)

“Lambert.” The youngest wolf looked up and over to where Eskel stood in the doorway, watching him, Geralt and Jaskier tangled in front of the fireplace. Tilting his head to follow him, he walked out the door and back down the hallway. Carefully, (or not so carefully, as he ‘accidentally’ dug his elbow into Geralt’s gut while standing) Lambert extracted himself from the  _ totally not _ cuddle pile to follow.

“Yeah?” Lambert asked when he caught up to Eskel halfway back up to the library. “Is this about Jaskier?”

“Why does everything have to revolve around him? Can’t I just have a nice conversation with you?”

Lambert raised his eyebrow and scoffed. “Cut the crap, Es, I’m not Geralt.” Instead of answering, Eskel held up the little pot for Lambert to see. Looking at it without bothering to take it out of Eskel’s hand, Lambert nodded. “Tried it yet?”

“So you know what this is?”

“Yeah. Jaskier borrowed my still room for it earlier. Made me an’ Geralt some too while he was at it.” Snorting, Lambert shook his head. “Actually, he made his usual amount, then realized that he actually didn’t need that much, so he gave us the extra after jarring up your portion.”

“So…  _ What is it? _ ” 

“Scar cream.” Lambert shrugged. “Elm, dandelion, lavender, honey, mint… buncha other shit.” It didn’t assuage any of Eskel’s confusion and his furrowed brow proved so. “Trust me, it helps.”

“Did he learn this at his bard school? Seems something that someone vain would care about.”

Lambert pursed his lips. This… wasn’t like Eskel. He was supposed to be the  _ personable _ one. “Being vain has nothing to do with that. He developed it for me.” Lambert touched his own facial scars to point them out. They all knew that they were bad when he first got them, having been infected, they had taken a long time to heal, and even longer to stop hurting constantly. Even now, the cold weather just made them ache, along with his other, more serious, childhood injuries. 

“...Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Look, he told me that he told you about his eye.”

“It doesn’t look that bad.”

Lambert laughed, loudly and mockingly, tinged with painful memories. “Well, yeah, you never met Aiden. He was a vain bastard, yeah. And really pretty too. That’s… Look, losing his eye hurt him, more than just the physical aspect of it. It killed a big chunk of who he was too. If it was just the knife wound, that would have been fine. It would have healed and we would have moved on. I’m  _ glad _ those bastards healed him when they wiped his memories.  _ Ecstatic.” _

Looking down and away, Lambert took a minute to just breathe and pull himself out of the memories. “I was there, when it happened.” He spoke, quieter, “cleaned it and sewed it up, just like he taught me to, but then the infection set in.” He was hugging himself now, trying to stop the shaking. “It was bad, Es. Real bad.” He looked up. “I thought he was going to die. The tissue was black and the side of his face looked like a fucking corpse, all swollen and leaking puss everywhere. I tried everything I could think of, and everything the hedge witch could think of also.”

A short burst of hysterical laughter as he shook, shaking his head as Eskel, wide-eyed, went to hug his brother. “Maggots, Eskel. She put maggots on his face, and it  _ worked _ . It finally stopped the infection from growing, but by then, we could see parts of his  _ cheekbone,  _ it was so bad. And by the time the swelling went down, his eye was just… gone. It took forever for his face to heal, and even then, it didn’t really, you know?” Lambert’s eyes flicked between Eskel’s eyes and his scar. “So, yeah, he might know a little about facial scars.”

Lambert stared at his brother, how he managed to fold in to himself. “We done here?”

“Yeah.” The word was barely set on the breeze before Lambert turned and left. He had a Cat to cuddle. 

Watching their youngest leave, Eskel finally looked down at the small innocent pot and slid down the wall. Instead of accepting the apology as he should have, he treated it with suspicion, like the Cat was like every human on the Path that mocked his scar for being there. Beyond that, Jaskier wasn’t even much in the wrong, reacting as he was provoked. They used their abilities and talked shit with each other all the time. Things like that, said in the heat of the moment, were rarely carried through.

The fact that his scars were no longer visible, shouldn’t change anything. He didn’t need to prove anything, especially after having the approval of both of his brothers already. It shouldn’t have taken Lambert telling him of the extent of Jaskier’s past marks to drive the point home. 

Carefully untying the twine holding the waxed cloth in place, Eskel took a tentative sniff of the salve. And when it didn’t offend his nose like he expected it would, he scooped out a pinch and rubbed it between his fingers. It had the coolness of the carrying oil, that quickly melted with his body heat to release a menthol smell and a tingling sensation from the mint. It was easily absorbed into his skin, not leaving any sticky or greasy residue behind. 

Making sure the cloth cover was secured back over the pot, he tucked it away in his pocket for later. 

Eventually, he decided to join the others in front of the fire. During the time where he had pulled Lambert away to talk, Jaskier had gone up to gather his lute and now was playing nothing in particular, sliding from one chord to another as his mind wandered. Lambert had curled around him, his head resting on Jaskier’s knee while he stared into the fire, while Jaskier was leaning against a reading Geralt. The scene was peaceful and he felt like an intruder as he stepped into the hall and drew three sets of golden and one green in his direction.

Taking a breath and squaring up his shoulders, Eskel walked up to Jaskier, ignoring his brothers and Vesemir working on his tapestry at the table, and fished out the little pot, holding it out. “Would you… Show me how to use this?”

“Sure.” Jaskier tilted his head, putting his lute aside and patting Lambert’s shoulder to make him sit up. “Do I have permission to touch your face?”

“What?” Eskel’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Well, I can’t exactly show you on mine, so I’d have to show you on yours. Do I have permission? To touch your face.” Jaskier clarified, gesturing at his face as he did so.

“I… sure.”

Jaskier smiled and indicated that Eskel should kneel in front of him. Taking the little pot, Jaskier rubbed a generous amount into his palms to warm the salve before starting at the top of his scars, working to the bottom in small circles, keeping his touch feather-light. “Do they still hurt?”

“No, not really.” Eskel focused on not shaking his head and dislodging Jaskier’s fingers. “Just when it gets too cold.”

Jaskier nodded in understanding. “The pulling. And do you have sensation? Or is the scarring itself numb?”

“It's sensitive,” Eskel corrected, “It burns easily too.”

Jaskier hummed in agreement, continuing to daub it on in small doses until his skin couldn’t absorb any more. “At least once a day. You can do it as often as you're comfortable with, Melitele knows, I practically slathered myself in the stuff when my scar finally healed enough to tolerate it.” 

And Eskel could understand why. The coolness of the salve was pleasant instead of biting like the colder air usually was. It also alleviated a bit of pulling sensation that he hadn’t noticed his scar doing as the days turned toward winter. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Jaskier shrugged, recovering the pot and handing it back over. “I understand your reluctance. I wouldn’t trust a stranger either. Talking to them is one thing. But having one in your safe space when the others already trust them is a whole other thing. I hope that I prove your brothers’ judgements right and you come to trust me as well this winter. I know that I haven’t been… I guess you can say, the most stable of companions. And I dare hope to say that you’ve seen the worst of me and we can only go up from here, hm?” 

Taking back the pot, Eskel took a page from his brother’s book. “Hn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel talks to Lambert about the scar cream, Lambert tells Eskel- in detail- why Jaskier is blind in one eye. Eskel goes to Jaskier and offers the olive branch, asking how the scar cream works. Jaskier teaches him how to apply it. They talk briefly about Eskel's scar sensitivity.


	22. A howl rattled through the keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, hi? 
> 
> I started a modern AU that should have been a one-shot. Now I'm looking at at least ten chapters.
> 
> I have not abandoned this one! I'm just really (really) slow with updates the other 11/12 of the year.

A howl rattled through the keep that night, waking each of the wolves from their slumber. 

“...Geralt?” Eskel propped himself up from the bed just enough to look over at Geralt, who was scrambling out of bed on the hunt for his pants and _not_ his sword, so the howl was familiar.

“Go back to bed, Eskel. It’s Jaskier.” 

“Ah.” Instead of doing as he was told, he scrambled for his own pants as well. “He gets nightmares often?” They all got nightmares, but this one sounded particularly hellish. 

Geralt grunted, not waiting as Eskel hopped across the room after his brother, still shimmying his shirt on as they stumbled down the spiral staircase that led up to Geralt’s room. At the bottom of the tower and a few doors down the hallway, they met up with a frazzled Lambert as he paced in front of Jaskier’s room, his hand pulling painfully on his hair.

“He locked the door.” Lambert offered up, wide-eyed and not completely in the present as he looked at his elder brothers. Geralt grunted, not even bothering to ask why Lambert hadn’t bothered to pick the lock as he went for the door and jiggled the handle in preparation for shoulder-checking the door open… only to find it already unlocked. 

Giving Lambert a brief look over his shoulder, expecting him to say something along the line that he loosened the latch for him, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood in the doorway and watched as Geralt paced over to where Jaskier had curled up on his bed, the covers thrown, and grabbed both of his wrists in an effort to pull his nails away from his face. All three wolves could smell blood on the air, now that the door was open. Geralt, for all his strength, was having issues keeping Jaskier from clawing up his face even further with his Witcher and nightmare-fueled strength. 

“Jaskier! Wake up!” Geralt barked, not wanting to hurt his friend, but wanting him to not hurt himself even more. He could already feel the bruises that he was pressing into Jaskier’s skin with the effort. In response, Jaskier screamed like he was being killed. Which, in his dreams, may just have been true. 

“Shit, Move over Geralt. No, keep hold of his wrists, just, yeah, Axii!” Eskel signed right over Jaskier’s head and he collapsed like his strings were cut. Sighing, Eskel stepped back as he watched Geralt gently let go of Jaskier’s wrists, placing his arms down at his side. 

Looking back, Lambert was still in the doorway, his eyes wide as he whimpered. “Is he ok?”

“I don’t know.”

“He will be.” Geralt assured, studying the fresh wounds on Jaskier’s face and neck. “Go get the salve.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, we’ll just want to make sure to treat them.” It was true, the wounds were shallow and would heal with barely a scar to show for it, but it would be a balm for all of them to treat them like grave injuries. He had seen Jaskier kick up a fuss at breaking a nail, but had hardly said a word the one time that a nekker nearly broke his arm during a hunt gone bad. The only complaint that he’d had the two weeks it took for the fracture to heal was that he wasn’t able to play his lute for more than a handful of minutes at a time, let alone play for an audience. 

Also, from what he had heard between Jaskier’s own words and Eskel’s version of pillow talk, Geralt thought it would be better to be safer than sorry when it came to his face. 

Speaking of… 

“Lambert, the salve.” He prompted the youngest wolf, who was still frozen at the door, watching his elder brothers tend to the Cat. “Go get it and bring it up to my room.” Bending down, Geralt hefted up Jaskier’s limp body, blankets and all, and turned to make his way up to his room. He had the largest bed, after all.

“Right, Your room.” Geralt grunted in confirmation before starting to ascend.

“You coming?” He prompted Eskel, turning to look at him from the corner of his eye. Jaskier always slept better with someone next to him, and where Jaskier went, he was sure Lambert was to follow. The question was, would Eskel join them to just have the whole pack together, especially since he had been sleeping with Geralt earlier in the first place. 

“You sure?” Eskel asked, following anyway.

Geralt shrugged, as best as he could with the load in his arms. “You were there first. And I’ve never seen Jaskier kick anyone out from a bed he’s sleeping in, and I doubt you’d be the first.”

“That’s reassuring.” Eskel muttered, managing to slide around Geralt and his load to open the door for him, also flipping back the covers on the bed so that he could lay Jaskier back down with a minimal amount of fuss. Sure, the nice patch of warm would cool off in the meanwhile, but that was quickly remedied with four bodies under them. 

“The pelt too.” Geralt indicated with a tilt of his head at the pelt that had simply been folded back over the foot of the bed instead of being put away properly in its trunk. Eskel gave him a concerned look, but unfolded it anyway. “It helps.” Geralt offered up anyway, gesturing to the bard that laid unconscious in the middle of the bed. 

“I got it.” Geralt turned around just in time to see Lambert wrinkle his nose at the smell of the room, look between Geralt and Eskel and snort. “ _ Ew _ .”

“Like you have anything to say about it.”

Lambert shrugged, handing over the pot to Geralt and crawling over to the far side of the bed and wrapped his arms around Jaskier, burying his nose in Jaskier’s nape. 

Dampening Geralt’s spare clean rag in the unused water from the pitcher, Eskel wrung it out and handed it over to Geralt, who used it to wipe the traces of blood from Jaskier’s face. Under, the wounds were already well on their way to healing at an impressive rate. Still, he daubed the salve onto the scratches, making sure to cover them thoroughly, though he forwent the bandages, deeming them unnecessary. Sitting back, he capped the jar and put it on the nightstand, leaning back far enough that Eskel had easy access to the sleeping bard. “You can release him now.” 

“Right.” Nearly immediately, Jaskier went from calmly sleeping to twitching and turning in his sleep.

“Ssh, we got ya.” Lambert hummed into Jaskier’s skin, holding him tightly, his face buried.

“Mmm… wha?” Jaskier slurred, his eyes unfocused as the first thing he saw was Geralt.

“You had a nightmare. Woke the whole keep.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Want to… talk about it?”

Jaskier gave Geralt a half-smirk, giving the man points for offering, but saw Eskel hovering over his shoulder. “Not… this time.”

Geralt nodded, following Jaskier’s line of sight with a small frown. “Do you mind if Eskel joins us?”

“What?”

“You’re in my bed.” Jaskier gave him a blank stare. “I moved you after your nightmare.”

Jaskier mouthed an ‘ah’ of understanding, which also made him realize the scent in the room. “You sure? I don’t want to-” How to put this delicately? “-interrupt anything.”

“We were asleep.” Eskel stated blandly, amid Lambert’s snickers and consequent thwapping. 

“Old men couldn’t keep it up.” Lambert snickered.

Jaskier rolled onto his back and on top of Lambert. “ _ I’m  _ an old man.”

“Yes you are!” 

“...” Jaskier exchanged looks with Geralt and Eskel. “Children sleep on the floor.” He stated gravely, then attempted to push Lambert off the bed, with Geralt and Eskel quickly joining in. It quickly devolved into a wrestling match with all of them being kicked off the bed at least once before diving back in. Eventually, they settled back down to sleep, wrapped around each other, most of the blankets and pillows discarded on the floor. 

The next morning, Vesemir eyed all four boys and waved them off to the wall for their morning runs. “Just don’t make a habit of it, boys.” Various shades of sheepish greeted his ears as they all passed him for warm-ups. There wasn’t much point in making an example of it, if they all slept in and skipped morning training at the same time. That, and he too had heard the howling last night. And the silence that echoed even louder after. 

Watching them closely, he acknowledged that they were all a bit fatigued from last night. Whatever nightmare the cat had had, had affected them all to one degree or another.

Speaking of, he paid close attention to how Jaskier ran the obstacle courses in comparison to the last few days and how the wolves did as well. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the slight hesitation to things that came in on his blind side, his slower reaction time that would likely get him killed one day. That wouldn’t do.

For one, he would make sure that the boy’s weapon’s training involved a lot of compensation for his blind side and how to use his various other senses to make up for the deficiency. It was doable, he had seen his own brethren on the Path with similar disabilities that rarely affected his everyday life, once they learned how to work around it. 

Jaskier was well on his way there, but that was for normal activities, not weapons training. He would have to be careful and watch that the bard didn’t hurt himself trying to do things that he wasn’t prepared for. That and between relearning how to spar after so long, it would take at least the whole winter if he had anything to say about it. 

Sighing, he revised his mental plans for the boy. He wasn’t going to just throw him to his wolves, once he got his signs back down, like he had initially hoped. He had to make sure that the boy continued to thrive on the path, not just survive with Geralt saving his hide every other day (if his middle was to be believed). 

“Since you thr- _ four _ insist on burning the limited daylight that we  _ get.” _ Vesemir called, watching as they wove through the up-down logs, Jaskier carefully at the rear, the hand on his blind side held out just enough to give him time to react to the slightest touch. He hadn’t noticed the boy doing it, it was done so naturally. After each obstacle was passed, Eskel would inevitably look back at the cat, slowing down, which would, in turn, slow down Jaskier as he tried to maintain distance. “ _ Focus _ , Eskel!” He interrupted himself, watching Eskel turn back at the wrong time and nearly collide with the first weave pole. “After your runs, get working on your outdoor chores. We’ll pick up practice in the winter salle tonight during your free time.”  _ That  _ got the groans he knew it would. Maybe next time they would start waking up when they should, and  _ stop fooling around until the wee hours of the morning _ like they had been.

“Lambert, Jaskier, keep checking the roofs. Geralt, Eskel, that wall, despite all your efforts, will  _ not _ repair itself- Eskel, eyes forward!” The pup had turned around to check on Jaskier again, nearly tripping himself over the crawling nets. Geralt, he had caught checking on the cat twice during the run, while Lambert just cackled at every reprimand, running first in their little pack for once. “If you’re  _ that _ worried- Damnit, Jaskier, just let him run behind you just the once!” Vesemir swore under his breath, it was like wrangling the pups pre-trials all over again. 

Jaskier, who had slowed down to stay behind Eskel again, winced at the reprimand before nodding reluctantly. Speeding up to his normal jogging speed, he gave Eskel a wary look and a wide berth as he passed with Eskel on his blind side. He heard the wolf following a few steps behind and hand to focus on his breathing to steady his already erratic heartbeat. He knew why Vesemir made him switch with Eskel, but he didn’t have to like it. In his hindbrain, all he was registering was Predator. Big. Run. It also made him clumsy, distracting to the point where he nearly misjudged the next obstacle as it came up ahead of him. That, and the other two were already several obstacles ahead, so he didn’t quite see exactly how they were running them this round. It was frustrating, but he pushed through.

The worst part, was that whatever fault Eskel was looking for, he was likely seeing, which drove Jaskier to try to do as perfectly as possible. It was a vicious cycle that ended up driving Jaskier to exhaustion sooner than he would have liked, panting through the last circuit like he was out of shape, unlike the wolves. 

“You doing good?” Geralt asked when they were done, touching Jaskier’s shoulder before walking into the winded Cat’s line of vision.

“Y-yeah. I’m good.” Jaskier nodded, his hands propped on his knees as he stress panted. 

Grunting, Geralt nodded, giving the shoulder a squeeze before going over to Eskel to gather supplies for the wall. They had actually made progress the other day, filling up the inner and outer wall’s gap, so today they would pour filler in between, now that the mortar had somewhat cured overnight. 

Now that he was thinking of it, Geralt looked down at the hand that he had touched Jaskier with, his habit made sense now. Jaskier, if he wasn’t paying attention, would jump if he came around one side without announcing where he was in some way. It was just easiest to touch Jaskier’s shoulder, so that the Bard wouldn’t come around swinging whatever happened to be in his hands in surprise. Especially since a time or two, it had been a weapon in those graceful hands. That he was actually blind on that side explained quite a few things. He thought he was just skittish with people on that side and behind him, so Geralt had taken to using the same rules with Jaskier as he usually did with Roach: always making sure the other knew where he was, especially within kicking (or swinging) distance, by keeping a hand on them.


	23. Pair up!

Having watched Geralt’s interaction with Jaskier, Vesemir made up his mind. Pulling aside the two after their midday meal, he sat them down and looked between the two before settling on Geralt. “You didn’t know anything about this before yesterday then? And yet…” He left off, gesturing between the two.

Geralt blinked, his brows furrowed before looking over at Jaskier and realizing that he had sat on the bard’s blind side. “Oh.”

“Hm?” Jaskier turned enough to look at Geralt, sitting on his blind side, then looked back at Vesemir, shrugging. “He’s always sat on that side.” 

“And you’ve… never asked him to?”

“No. Why would I-”

“Geralt.” Vesemir turned to his pup. “Why?” 

“I…” His brows furrowed. “Habit. He seemed more comfortable when I stayed on this side.” 

Vesemir nodded, sitting back in his chair and looking between the two, making up his mind. “Dismissed. Get back to your chores. We’ll have training tonight after sunset.” 

Murmuring agreements, they both stood up with a nod to Vesemir and shared a confused and silent conversation as they went out the door. The conversation with the Wolf elder was… odd, to say the least, and not very informative. They were left more confused as they went their own ways to continue their tasks.

Vesemir watched the two leave, how they interacted around each other. How Geralt would navigate around on the Cat’s blind side, almost without either of them noticing, to make sure that he didn’t accidentally hit anything on that side to injure himself or knock anything away. When they reached the door, it was Geralt that reached out and opened it, only for Jaskier to duck under his arm and slip out with his hand lightly on the Witcher’s chest to help judge the gap in the doorway. It only solidified his decision with what to do.

* * *

“Pair up!” Vesemir told the boys as they entered the Salle. “We have even numbers for once, let’s use them.” When he saw Geralt drift toward Eskel and Lambert Jaskier, he shook his head. “Geralt with Jaskier. I want to see how you move together.” If his suspicions were correct, the two would work near-seamlessly… or Geralt would hover unbearably over the Cat the entire time.

Geralt pursed his lips before giving Eskel an apologetic shrug, sidling up to Jaskier’s blind side, steel in hand opposite the bard. Jaskier, in response, took out the two wooden daggers that he had been using to train with- wishing that he trusted himself with live steel while sparring- and widened his stance, crouching slightly to the side and ahead of Geralt. “Rules?”

“Standard.” Jaskier gave the elder a blank look, rolling one of his daggers, silently asking for some more details. 

“To yield. Don’t kill them.” Geralt explained, giving an addendum after eyeing Jaskier’s all-too-ready form. 

The cat turned and gave Geralt an exaggerated pout, holding up his  _ wooden _ weapons. “Kind of hard to do with these, Dear Wolf.” Geralt just gave him a dry look in response. He didn’t have to speak out loud of all the times he had to pry the bard off an idiot human during a bar fight, armed with only his lute. “Ok… yeah. But they’re  _ Witchers.  _ They don’t bleed as easily.”

Geralt just sighed and nodded at Vesemir that they were ready. 

Taking a step back, Vesemir signaled for them to start. To only half the wolves surprise, Jaskier immediately launched himself into the offensive, Geralt covering him with a well-placed (Read: practiced) Quen shield. What they didn’t expect, was for him to launch himself straight at Lambert with a war-cry that was half feral and half cheer. Lambert met his daggers with his sword and the same feral grin as the Cat. 

Eskel knocked him off Lambert with a pinpoint Aard, knocking Jaskier back enough for him to slip his sword in between the two feral ones. As he stumbled back, Geralt stepped in, knocking away Eskel’s sword and swung towards Lambert in the same move. 

Lambert danced back, getting distance between himself and the sword. He sprayed a sparking Igni towards Geralt’s eyes, temporarily blinding him with the light. As he was blinking away the spots dancing across his vision, Jaskier used him as a climbing frame/shield and spun both of them while launching one of his (blunted for practice) throwing knives. 

Vesemir watched them spar, silently impressed that Geralt and the Cat worked as well as they did together. It spoke of fighting together like this before, of having at least some inherent trust in each other and not just Geralt protecting the bard in the past. True, it was instinctual on the pup’s part, but that it was to the point where he didn’t fight when he was moved by the boy was, frankly, impressive. It spoke of many times letting himself be moved in the past, to the point where he didn’t consciously fight it any longer. That, on others, would be a dangerous level of trust. It was the level of trust that Geralt had only ever given Eskel during their boyhoods. 

“Switch!” He called out mid-spar. “Geralt, Eskel against Lambert and Jaskier. Go.” 

The two hesitated, Jaskier under Geralt’s arm, exposed to his vulnerable underarm, just long enough that the sword aimed for Geralt’s same exposed side by Eskel’s hand, instead slammed into the side of Jaskier’s head on his blind side, thankfully with just the flat. Still, it knocked the cat away and onto his back with a startled hiss.

“You Fucker!” Lambert screamed, sucker-punching Eskel as he dropped the tip of his sword in surprise, before running over to check on Jaskier, who remained flat on his back. They could all smell the blood coming from the cat. “Ai-Jaskier, you ok?” Lambert tapped on his good cheek when he didn’t immediately respond. It took a moment, but Jaskier came back to swinging. Thankfully, Lambert was able to catch his hands as the cat panted. “Hey, you back with us now?” 

“Hn… Yeah. Ow. What hit me?” 

“Eskel.” Lambert replied, sitting back when Jaskier went to sit back up, offering his hand to help if he wanted it. “Got you in the temple with his blade.”

“...” Jaskier grunted, his hand coming up to touch where he could already feel it swelling. “I thought I apologized already.” Pulling back, he wiped the blood on his fingertips off on his pants. 

In the background, Eskel looked down and pinched his eyes closed. That… was fair, he supposed. 

“You did.” Lambert stated dryly. Tactfully restraining from stating his opinion on how idiotic Eskel had been about the whole thing. Then again, if Vesemir hadn’t pushed the whole issue in the first place, likely Jaskier wouldn’t have had to apologize, and consequently expose his secrets, for all to see. 

“Right.” Standing up, he wiped the blood he could feel off the side of his head, picking up his wooden daggers. “Let’s carry on then! I do believe that Vesemir made us switch partners, correct? It’s to first yield, right, and I’m still up.” 

The wolves collectively winced, watching the side of Jaskier’s face swell up and discolor, the eye swelling shut. “What?” he asked, seeing their expressions. He could feel the swelling, as well as the blossoming headache, but he had something to prove. “It’s not like I can see out of that eye in the first place.” 

Vesemir was unimpressed, judging from the thinning of his lips, but he reluctantly nodded and stepped back. “Begin when you’re ready, then.” Nodding carefully, dipped into his ready posture and eyed the two larger wolves, waiting for them to attack. 

Neither one wanted to, though. Geralt because this was his  _ bard _ and he was already injured, Eskel because he had already hurt the cat, and he thought the cat would let him do it again until he was forgiven for a non-existent slight. 

Lambert, on the other hand, readily took the offensive, attacking Eskel with a yell and no hesitation whatsoever. Jaskier played his defense, using his body to stop the blows before they hit the younger Witcher, not even using his daggers, just the two’s unwillingness to injure the bard further. 

“I yield.” Eskel raised his hand, dropping the tip of his sword after he nearly couldn’t stop his weapon from striking Jaskier for the third time. He just couldn’t make himself follow through. Especially after… that. To prove his point, he even used the Cat-school sign of submission by slowly dropping to one knee, his fingertips touching the dirt while he kept eye contact with Jaskier. “I yield.”

With a huff, Vesemir dismissed the boys with a flick of his hands. Obviously, pairs combat practice was a failure, at least this early into the winter. “Go, clean yourselves up. Food in an hour.” He watched them leave, Geralt one one side of the Cat, Lambert on the other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while. Life, Y'know? That, and I'm a bit stuck, at the moment. On the good side of that, you still have about three more chapters before I've hit that wall I've been hung up on since... Yule? haha... I figured since my birthday's the 21st, I'll update all my fics that I'm currently working on. Make me feel better about not being able to do a damn other thing this year.


	24. His skin was flawless

“Here.” Geralt came around with a familiar pot of salve, holding it up for Jaskier’s inspection. “Can I?” Jaskier just barely restrained from rolling his eyes, but nodded nonetheless. Yes, the bruise on his face stung, but so did the scratches he apparently put on his face last night in his sleep. Neither wound was near life threatening, but he could see the earnestness in Geralt’s eyes as he offered the salve. It was doing more for his own peace of mind than actually helping the minor wounds heal. Still, if Geralt wanted to-

Jaskier nodded and closed his eyes, letting Geralt smear the cream over the side of his face, his touch delicate over the half-healed bruises and scrapes. “There. Better.” Jaskier opened his eyes, staring at Geralt as he used a light touch on Jaskier’s chin to turn his head side-to-side. And still, he rubbed his thumb along Jaskier’s cheek on his blind side, humming absently. He didn’t mind, but he wasn’t sure if Geralt was aware of what he was doing.

“See something you like, Dearest.” 

“What?” Geralt snatched his hand back like his fingers were on fire. “Oh, sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” Jaskier waved off the apology. “What’s on your mind that’s got you so deep in thought? Do I have something on my face?” Jaskier’s tease sunk into a light grimace. “Beyond, y’know, the obvious.”

Geralt’s hum was deep with thought as he swiped his thumb on Jaskier’s cheek, then the other, pressing a little firmer than he had while applying the salve. This hum was closer to a growl, the way it reverberated in the wolf’s chest. “The texture is… hmm… different.” Geralt settled for the word, though he looked unhappy about it. 

“Oh?” Jaskier’s tone was borderline hysterical before he got a firmer grip on his emotions. “Well, that’s interesting.”

Geralt nodded, taking Jaskier’s cheeks in both his hands and swiping his thumbs at the same time. “This side is… softer.” The skin felt like it had slightly more give to it, with distinct edges between the softer flesh and his normal skin. But looking at it, there was no indication of the scar that Lambert and Jaskier had told them about.”

“...Huh.” No, he would not panic. Geralt was feeling things that weren’t there. It was an indent left from Eskel’s sword strike to the cheek earlier. Jaskier pulled away, swiping his own cheeks roughly to try to feel what Geralt did. No, it didn’t really matter. The indent along his cheek was definitely from Eskel’s sword. It was just a coincidence. Horrible, terrible coincidence that the dent was exactly where his scar lays- laid. Where it used to be. No. His skin was flawless. It was the one good thing that had come from the whole terrible incident. “I’m going to, uh, going to go… get ready for dinner. Gotta look nice, right?” 

Geralt grunted, not so much in agreement, but because he didn’t have any words. Jaskier attempted to smile, but neither of their hearts were truly in it as he stepped back and turned to leave. 

* * *

“Anybody seen the cat?” Vesemir looked around at his boys, putting down the cauldron of stew on the scorched part of the table, within easy reach to pass out bowls. “Boys?” 

“I’ll bring him a bowl if he doesn’t come down.” Geralt volunteered, earning a raised brow from their mentor.

“I thought I made it clear that evening meals were a group affair unless too ill to attend.”

“Yes, sir.” Geralt nodded, looking down at his bowl. “I may have scared him in the bath.”

“What did you do?” Lambert hissed, looking one wrong word away from jumping the table. 

“His cheek.” Geralt tapped his with his thumb nail, as if they didn’t know. “I told Jaskier that it felt different from the other one.”

“What?” Lambert’s breathless question was an eerie mirror to Jaskier’s earlier.

“You knew it was a possibility, ever since the spell broke.” Geralt stated, even though he didn’t want to say so out loud- because that would make this possibility real. “That they didn’t fix his body, that it was a glamour.” Picking up his spoon to stir his stew gave him something to do, though he didn’t have the stomach to actually eat. 

The ‘Fuck’ that Lambert breathed as he closed his eyes was felt deeply by all of them. Even with the brief time of knowing the bard, they all knew that he put a lot of stock in his appearance. Then again, if they truly had healed his body, they would have given him back his sight, not just his eye. Then again, that was probably a glamour as well. 

“How bad are we looking at, Pup?” Vesemir asked, already putting together a plate to be taken up.

“Bad.” Lambert looked over to Eskel and then deliberately away. “Real bad.”

“Right. You and Geralt are in charge of him. You especially, since you know how this will look like. Try to bring him down in the meanwhile. My rules are like this for a reason.” 

“Yes, sir.” Standing, Geralt took the plate and followed Lambert and his nose up to Jaskier’s room. They could tell it was bad, since he was voluntarily hiding himself away in his own room. A room that he had only stepped foot in a handful of times so far that winter. 

“Hey, Jask.” Geralt knocked on the door, speaking loud enough that he knew could be heard in the room. In response, a groan came from inside and a moment later, the door cracked open, revealing a face with a pressure mark one one cheek, bleary eyes and sleep-ruffled hair.

“Hmm… Yeah?” Tilting his head, he rested his cheek on the doorjamb, casually only holding his door open a crack.

Geralt held up the plate with a wry look. “Vesemir made you up a plate. We thought you were sulking.”

Blinking at the still-steaming bowl, Jaskier shook the cobwebs from his brain with a grunt. “No, I just laid down for a minute. Guess I fell asleep instead.”

“Eh, it happens.” Lambert shrugged his way inside, uninvited.

“ _ Kitten _ -”

“Especially- ooph- if you’re still working that spell off.” Lambert fell across Jaskier’s bed, his hands behind his head. “Any more memories come back?” 

Instead of answering, Jaskier took the plate and sat down, tearing the slice of crusty bread into pieces before sprinkling it over his stew. “And how would I be able to answer that, Lamb? They were always there, just… suppressed.” Did he even want to think about how many cases of intuition or Deja Vu were actually memories from a previous lifetime? How he knew that certain towns were to be avoided by Witchers, even without Geralt’s insistence? “I do remember that your left hand is slightly weaker because it was crushed at one point, if that’s the kind of thing you’re looking for.” 

“Ugh. No.” Sticking his tongue out, Lambert rolled up just enough to snag a dried fruit from Jaskier’s plate.

“I find that in my sheets, I’m taking over your bed.”

“Not like you weren’t already!” Lambert singsonged, chewing obnoxiously. 

“Funny, still can’t remember why I love you though.”

“Cause I’m a good fuck.”

“No.” Jaskier grimaced theatrically. “No, it can’t be that. Geralt, why do I love your brother?” 

“I’ve been wondering that for years. Thought he made you up, frankly.” 

“Dick!” Lambert threw one of the dried berries at Geralt’s head, who caught it in his mouth with little effort. “You’re a huge dick, Geralt.”

“No, that’s Eskel.” 

Lambert blanched and Jaskier looked intrigued. “I’d heard rumors…”

“They’re probably true.” Geralt shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, seeing as the chair and bed were already taken. “He once actually satisfied a succubus.” 

“Well, huh.” Jaskier looked fascinated, thinking on how that would manage to go, satisfying the insatiable. 

Lambert, on the other hand, seemed sick at the thought. “No. Thank you.”

“Do you think he’d-” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows at Geralt while Lambert popped up and made his way up and over to the door.

“Yeah, well, you’re fine. Vesemir said no more skipping dinner. There. Message delivered. I’m out.” Jaskier gave the door an amused look, then turned to Geralt with a raised brow, who hadn’t moved beyond letting Lambert out. 

“... Are you ok?” 

He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it. Geralt could always tell when he was lying. And he couldn’t distract him near as easily as Lambert. “I… don’t know.” Geralt’s grunt meant that he should keep talking. “It’s difficult. And I’m scared. What if… what if it was all a glamour. All of it.” Bard’s can’t be ugly. Can’t be scarred. He was afraid, if he spoke it out loud, that it would become true. 

“Then we’ll deal with it. Find Yennefer-” Geralt cut himself off at Jaskier’s wince. “Think about it, at least. It’s an option.” 

“Would you let me say no?”

“Not without a good reason, at least.” 

“Yeah. Ok.” looking down, he gave his stew a good stir before looking back up. “Can I have a hug?” Nodding, Geralt stood straight and folded the cat into his arms. “...Thanks.” 


End file.
